


Slings and Arrows

by kenzotenma



Series: Slings and Arrows [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Background Relationships, Betaed So We Live Like Claude, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Diary/Journal, Dreams and Nightmares, Everyone lies, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Just Monica, Letters, Minor Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Minor Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault, Minor Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz, Monster Transformation, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Slow Burn, Time Travel, character backstories, spoilers for all routes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 244,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21815656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenzotenma/pseuds/kenzotenma
Summary: After losing those most dear to her, Byleth uses her divine powers to turn back time to the very beginning... to try it all again. Her goal is to prevent the impending war, but she quickly realizes that it's easier said than done. After all, trust is a precious commodity, and the fine lines between ally and enemy have created a web that proves difficult for Byleth to untangle. Will she be able to carve a different path for Fódlan, or are some things just unmoving in the flow of time?[Time-travel route convergence; not a fix-it, no one is safe.]
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & My Unit | Byleth
Series: Slings and Arrows [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119149
Comments: 179
Kudos: 188





	1. The Fool

**Author's Note:**

> “To be, or not to be? That is the question—  
> Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer  
> The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,  
> Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,  
> And, by opposing, end them? To die, to sleep—"  
>  _-Hamlet, 3.1.57-61_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth has a visitor. Felix struggles with feelings. Dorothea has no regrets. Ferdinand gets philosophical.
> 
> “When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.”  
>  _-King Lear, 4.6.171-172_

“It has been a lifetime... hasn’t it, Professor?”

The voice behind Byleth cuts through her like a knife. She turns around to see who the voice belongs to… though she already knows… how could she forget, even after all these years?

His hair had grown long, and a patch now covered his right eye. He had grown taller, his face worn and hardened like everyone else’s due to years of brutality and war. Under his eyes were bruises dark enough that they nearly matched his cloak.

“I thought you were dead,” Byleth breathes, her breath catching.

“Yes… I thought so too,” he replies, his good eye refusing to look up from the ground. “I wanted to slice her throat, Professor… but I did not get the chance.”

Byleth steps toward him, studying his face. His face was so tired, his words sounded so defeated. “Dimitri, there will be another chance. The church and I… we have been resisting the Imperial Army for months.” She swallows a breath. “Had I known you were still alive all this time… I... I would have found you. We could have worked together… we still can,” she makes her offer softly, reaching out to gently touch his arm.

Dimitri huffs. “I thought _you_ were dead. And I didn’t want to be found. I only wanted her head.”

“I understand,” Byleth says weakly. “I am just happy you are here now. Our desires are the same… let’s work together, Dimitri.”

He shifts his weight and visibly stiffens. “You don’t want to work with a _wretch_ like me,” he hisses. Dimitri turns his head away from Byleth and scowls deeply. “I let people die, Professor. And yet… I still stand. Rodrigue, Gustave, Dedue…”

Her heart hurts when his sadness begins to crack his voice. Rodrigue… Gustave… Dedue… She had fought alongside them years ago at the academy; she was close enough with them to feel pain at their loss… Byleth could only imagine the pain that Dimitri held for these people who he held so dear. He always felt things so deeply; that did not change after all these years.

She struggled to find something to say. She closed the distance between them and slid her hand into his, giving a gentle squeeze. “Dimitri, there must be a reason you survived. And we can always atone for our sins.”

“You sound just like Rodrigue,” Dimitri laughs darkly. He squeezes her hand back, then finally looks up at her. Tears begin to burn at the corners of Byleth’s eyes, and she sucks in a sharp breath to keep them from falling.

“A reason… Everyone gives such complicated advice, and I can never quite grasp it all. That is why… _Byleth.._. I came here to explain my decision.”

She feels her tears start to fall. She feels… faint. Had she not been breathing? Her hand holds tighter to his to keep herself upright. “What decision?” she asks.

“Byleth,” Dimitri says her name again as he reaches for her other hand, “I have no resources to take back the Kingdom capital, much less to defeat the Empire... And that is why…”

* * *

“Professor! Are you alright?” A hand touches her shoulder.

Byleth sits up with a jolt. “Steady now… You will catch a cold sleeping in a place like this,” Seteth jokes, giving her shoulder a comforting rub. Byleth stares up at him, wide-eyed. She looks over to where Dimitri was standing, but there was… nothing. She whips around to look the other direction, past Seteth. Still nothing. The sun had almost completely set as dusk begins to filter through the courtyard.

Seteth furrows his brow. “Professor, is something the matter?”

“Where did he go?” Byleth’s speech feels thick on her tongue. She turns to look at Seteth with wild eyes, like a cat that had been spooked. Tears begin to burn at her eyes again… _No, I_ cannot _cry again_ , she tells herself as she tries to blink them away.

“Hm? I am the only one here,” Seteth observes quietly. He immediately notices Byleth beginning to tremble. “Everything will be alright, Professor,” he tries to reassure her quickly, putting his arm around her shoulders comfortingly. “Were you dreaming?”

Byleth breathes in sharply. _Seteth was mistaken. It_ had _to have been real. He was right here, she touched him. He was there. He made it out of Gronder alive, and came to see her. It had to have been real…_ right _?_ Her chest hurt. She felt dizzy again. Her fingers curled into the dirt and cobblestone of the courtyard path. “A… dream?” Byleth breathes.

“Well, I can’t say for certain that you were dreaming,” Seteth says carefully, “but if someone did come here to see you…” He felt Byleth’s breath hitch. In the dying evening light of the courtyard, he could see a few tears escape and trail down her face. “That person only wanted _you_ to see their face.”

Byleth’s tears turn into sobs. She could hear Seteth try to comfort her between her cries, but it did not soothe her. How could it? The pain she felt… the guilt… crushing… _Or is that feeling from not being able to breathe from crying so hard?_ _How childish…_ She thinks to herself. _You’re sobbing hysterically like a_ child _who hurt themselves playing outside_. Seteth continues to try to soothe her.

_“Hey kiddo, how’d you manage this one?” Jeralt asks as he kneels down next to a young Byleth, who is holding her arm carefully. They had been staying in this village for about a week now, and Byleth was excited to play with the other children. It wasn’t often that she was able to be a child, living life on the road with her mercenary father._

_Byleth took a deep breath. “We were playing Knights and Bandits, and I hurt my arm real bad,” she explained simply, still cradling her arm in her lap._

_“Well, looks like the bandits got away, Byleth! Where did all the others go?” Jeralt laughs. “Lemme see your arm, kiddo,” he says, motioning to the injured arm of his daughter._

_She huffed, and gingerly extended her bad arm to her father using her good hand for support. “They all ran away after I got hurt.”_

_“That wasn’t very nice of ‘em, was it? Damn brats… let’s get a good look here,” Jeralt says gruffly, peeling back his daughter’s sleeve. A small yelp escapes Byleth at the movement of her bad arm, and her father grimaces at the sight under the sleeve. The skin was swollen and beginning to bruise, and her forearm was twisted in a way that was absolutely not normal._

_“Yikes, kiddo. Looks like you broke your arm pretty good. Doesn’t this hurt?” Jeralt asks his daughter, concerned. She looked like she was uncomfortable, but a break like this would make any of the other village children cry like a baby. But then again… his daughter wasn’t like any other child._

_“The other kids told me a real Knight never cries,” Byleth says plainly. “So I’m not gonna cry.”_

_“Hmm.” Jeralt pauses, and then carefully scoops up his daughter into his arms, careful not to move around her injured arm. “Let’s get you to a healer… alright, kiddo?”_

Byleth cries harder at the memory. Rodrigue… Gilbert… Dedue… Her father… And now Dimitri... gone again just as quickly as he seemingly arrived. _More to add to the list of friends and allies that have been taken from this realm too soon, due to this horrible,_ horrible _war._ Ashe… Lorenz… Marianne… Bernadetta… Claude is missing, probably dead. _Will he visit me in a dream next?_ And Rhea… Byleth has so many questions and neither her nor Seteth can find any answers because Rhea has been missing or dead this whole time. _Will I ever get answers? Will I ever get to know_ why _?_

“Perhaps they wanted you to guide them…” Seteth tells her. Byleth practically has to gulp for air. She cannot control her crying anymore. She turns her wet, burning eyes into Seteth’s shoulder and continues sobbing. He hugs her, and continues to rub comforting circles into her back. “There, there,” he says, frowning. He had never seen her so… upset. He knows the responsibility that Byleth carries on her shoulders, and has seen it weigh more heavily on her day by day after she had awoken from her long sleep. This war has been especially weary on a compassionate soul such as hers _,_ Seteth thinks to himself.

“Perhaps…” Byleth cries, “I need someone… to guide… _me_ ,” she laments between sobs. “Who can guide _me_?”

Seteth opens his mouth to speak, but Byleth continues to sob into his shoulder. “I am so alone, Seteth. All of my old friends are disappearing… friends becoming enemies… so much has been taken from this world… how can it ever… be the same?”

“War changes people. It changes the world. I wish otherwise, too… but I regret that it can never truly be the same,” Seteth offers, as gently as he can. Hot tears continue to stream down Byleth’s face, soaking into the fabric of his tunic. The sun had completely set now, only the golden glow from the dining hall windows illuminating the courtyard.

“Prof-” Seteth stops himself. “Byleth, it is dark out, and cold. I truly do not want you to fall ill.” He pulls away from the hug to look at her. He hates that she is so distraught, and hates even more that he doesn’t know what to say to comfort her. “Are you able to stand?”

Byleth sniffles and nods.

“Alright. Let’s get you inside where it is warm. Do you want to continue talking in my office? Or would you like to go back to your quarters?”

“My quarters,” she manages, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

“Very well. I will walk you to your quarters.” Seteth helps Byleth stand, and wraps his arm around her shoulders again to give her a comforting squeeze. They walk through the courtyard to the dormitories. When they approach her room, Seteth stops.

“Byleth.”

She slows, and turns to look at him. Eyes burning, still wiping her tears with her hand.

“You must know that many people are here to guide you. I am always here to guide you the best I can. Alois is here to guide you. Flayn, even. She speaks of you as family, you know? You have so many of your former students here. They are here to support you on your path as well.”

Seteth pauses. “And the goddess is always guiding you, Byleth. When your path is dark and you feel that you are unable to walk it… have faith. Ask the goddess. She is there for you, always,” he says, reaching out to lay a hand on Byleth’s shoulder for reassurance, and offers a smile.

Byleth smiles back weakly, sniffling. She steps forward and hugs him. Her heart is heavy, but she is grateful for Seteth.

“If you need anything at all, you know where to find me, Byleth,” Seteth says, pulling away from the hug, hands holding her shoulders. She nods, and thanks him.

He smiles at her again, gives her shoulder one last gentle squeeze, and bids her good night. Byleth enters her room, and closes the door behind her. She doesn’t even bother lighting a candle, or changing out of her clothes which were now dirty from the courtyard ground. She shuffles into her bed, and buries her face into her pillow. A few more hot tears stream down her face as she recalls them once more.

_Rodrigue… Gilbert… Dedue… Her father… Dimitri… Ashe… Lorenz… Marianne… Bernadetta…_

She turns and looks outside at the stars. _I pray Claude is looking at the same night sky._ More tears silently fall down her face.

_Sothis… I hope you can see the stars, too._

She breathes deeply, and closes her eyes. Her tears finally begin to dry on her face and neck. When the exhaustion from crying is finally about to catch up with her…

“Byleth, did you _really_ think that you have no one here to guide you?”

Eyes snapping open, Byleth wakes from the edge of sleep, startled. “S-Sothis? Is that you?” she whispers into the darkness of her room.

“Of course it’s me! You’ve forgotten about me already?!” the goddess snarks back. 

Byleth looks around, eyes struggling to see in the darkness. “No…” she trails off, blinking away the sleep from her eyes. “I haven’t forgotten you. But I can’t see you anywhere… Where are–”

Sothis snorts. “Well, I still think you did forget about me… Seteth had to remind you, after all! Anyway, you can’t see me anymore because I am _one_ with you, Byleth,” Sothis chastises. “Remember? Don’t tell me you forgot about _that_ , too!”

Byleth squeezes her eyes shut. “I could never forget that! Sothis, please… forgive me… I didn’t know I could still speak to you,” she tells her. “I thought once we… became one… you were no longer there… I didn’t see you again… I thought–”

“Oh shush,” the goddess interrupts. “You didn’t see me, but wasn’t it I who spoke to you when you awoke in the river months ago? I have always been with you, I–”

“Why haven’t you talked to me, then?” Byleth quips, voice hushed.

“I… I just… I guess I just didn’t have a lot to say.”

“Oh,” Byleth breathes. An uncomfortable beat of silence follows. “Sothis? Are you still there?”

“Yes, yes… I am _always_ here with you. I… I just think I was just so tired after giving you my power, back in the darkness… I was so sleepy… so _exhausted_ afterwards. I think that’s why I didn’t speak to you much.”

“It’s okay,” Byleth whispers back. “I didn’t speak much to you, either… I should have spoken to you sooner… I… should have...” she trails off.

Sothis clears her throat. “There are many things we wish we could have done differently, Byleth. Such is the flow of time.”

“I missed you, Sothis… I have felt so lost. I wish I would have spoken to you earlier, I could have asked for your guidance earlier–”

“You don’t need my guidance, Byleth! I am flattered that you missed me, but you have become a fine leader. You are smart, capable, strong–”

“I am _weak_ ,” Byleth hisses the last word, trying again to hold back tears. _Why do I always feel the need to cry when I think about_ him _?_ “I should have sent troops to Dimitri when they had asked, I shouldn’t have waited… He’s dead because of me!”

“Oh Byleth,” the goddess soothes. “You always cared so much for him. But would you really go back and send out your men for them to fight in a losing battle? How many more lives would be lost?”

“I know… I know… It’s just…” Byleth’s voice waivers.

“Shh, I understand. You and I are one, remember?” Sothis reminds her. “It is difficult to see those you love and care for leave this world. You weep for the King, and for your friends who fell in battle. Like I told you before when you awoke, the people of Fodlan are lost in an abyss of suffering. You are not the only one to feel this way, but you _are_ someone who can put an end to the suffering.”

Byleth furrows her brow and twists her eyes closed. “But each time I try to end this suffering, it only seems to create more of it. More people are taken from those who love them. That is why,” Byelth cries, “I am weak… I don’t know how to continue…”

Sothis hums.

“Sothis, please help me… I don’t know what to do.”

The goddess sighs, “If you must weep, then weep. But you must keep moving ever onward, Byleth.”

“But… how?” Byleth asks the empty room.

Sothis doesn’t answer.

* * *

Byleth leaves the war council meeting and steps into the brisk Great Tree Moon air. It was hard for her to focus during the meeting, and her head still ached from all of her tears yesterday. Seteth showed more parental concern for her after the council adjourned, inviting her to dinner with him and Flayn, even. She politely declined, but silently thanked Sothis for him.

She has other plans.

One of her best generals had not been to a war council since the Battle of the Bridge of Myrddin. And to be honest, she hadn’t seen him much at all since news of Gronder Field came to the monastery a few days ago. It was difficult not having his shoulder to lean on, especially after yesterday, since he was normally ever so stoic. She did not fault him, though. He needed time to grieve, perhaps more than anyone.

While he was never at war council, the dining hall, or his quarters… he was bound to be at the training grounds. And just as Sylvain had suggested, there he was. Training. Relentlessly, without abandon.

_“That’s all he’s been doing–swinging that damn sword. I don’t think he has eaten once since, Professor. I’m worried about him. He won’t even speak to me. All my life, he’s never… It’s_ never _been this bad, even after Glenn died,” Sylvain frets, hand worrying at the hair at the nape of his neck. “Maybe you should try talking to him? He_ always _listens to you. Make sure he’s taking care of himself, y’know?”_

She takes a few cautious steps toward him, squinting when the dust he kicks up rolls in her direction. His form is slipping, and in any other circumstances, she would point it out to him since he loves to point out the shortcomings of others. He would grumble, and she would laugh. But not today.

His form slips because of the weight of several sleepless nights on his shoulders. He spins and thrusts his wooden blade at the training dummy with a huff. She knows he saw her approach him, but he looked down, and turned back to swing his sword again.

“Felix–”

“Not now,” he says curtly, voice dry. He continues his training, not once looking at her.

“Please–”

“I’m busy.”

He parries an attack from his invisible opponent, and brings his sword down on the dummy once more, this time with a stupid amount of force, almost to prove a point. Byleth took the hint, and left Felix to train.

* * *

“Byleth!”

She turns to look down toward the stables at the golden-haired man waving at her. The grin on his face was infectious, even with the distance between him. She feels herself smile softly, as she dismisses herself from the Knights to join him. This was the first time she had smiled in days, it seems. Though it’s hard not to around Ferdinand; his cheery disposition is difficult to resist.

“I am glad I could catch you before I depart! How was your conference with the knights?” He greets her, still beaming.

She shades her eyes from the afternoon sun, and squints up at him. “It went well–we refined our strategy some more… enough for me to start to have confidence in it, at least.”

“Ah, the costumes?” he laughs. “Lest I forget, the costumes were _your_ idea, were they not?”

“Oh hush!” Byleth playfully swats his arm. “I may have learned a thing or two from Claude back in the day. Finally I get to put it to good use!” She smiles at the memory, and so does Ferdinand.

“Well, where are you headed? You said you’re leaving,” Byleth asks, reaching out to give his horse’s nose a gentle pet.

Ferdinand goes back to adjusting his saddle and reins. “I am going to Hrym territory. I... well,” he clears his throat, “I sent scouts to look for my father several moons ago. They just got word that he was seen in Hrym recently.”

“Is he safe?”

“I do not know…” Ferdinand’s hands stay busy adjusting his horse’s bridle. “I am told there is rioting in Hrym right now, and the military no longer has control over the area. I fear for my father, and hopefully we can get to him before he is swept up in the violence.” He takes a steady breath, then continues. “Did you know my father ruled Hrym territory after the insurrection? Lysithea tells me he taxed the people of Hrym harshly. That is likely why people are rioting, even now. He never told me…” His voice takes on a somber tone, uncharacteristic of him. Byleth’s heart tightens at the sound, and at the thought of…

“Ferdinand… What if you can’t find your father?”

His hands stop, and he turns his eyes to the sky, squinting against the sun. “Some part of me expects that… My father made many mistakes. He served himself, never his people. If we cannot find him... I will atone for his mistakes.”

Ferdinand sighs. “And try to be a better man than he was.”

She reaches for his arm, “Ferdinand, you _are_ a good man. You always have been.” He smiles down at her, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I hope you find your father.”

“Me too,” he agrees.

A breadth of silence falls between them, uncommon for their conversations. Ferdinand breaks it first. “I have been wondering something... If I had not been your student, where would I be right now? Who would I be? Do you ever think that sort of thing, Byleth?”

She freezes up. Who _would_ Ferdinand be, in another life? She could never see him compromising his character to serve Edelgard; he would never allow her ends to justify her ruthless means... She could see him as Duke Aiger in a time of peace, as a progressive servant of the people... He could have joined another house at the academy, and they would never be close as they are now…

 _He could be dead._ She shakes the thought from her head, but not after it shakes her to the core.

“Like if I had joined the Empire or led a different house?”

“Ah,” he muses. “So you do think about such questions. You can never find answers though, right? We cannot turn back time, so there is no way to go back and try a different path.”

Byleth nods. She looks up to Ferdinand, the sunlight illuminating his golden locks. Wrapping her arms around him, she holds tightly to him. A small laugh escapes him, as he embraces her back. “Please stay safe,” she tells him.

“Of course, Byleth,” he assures her, his sunny demeanor returning. “Your best advisor must be at the next war council, after all!” She smiles into his chest. _It’s nice to do more smiling than crying for once._ “I will be back before the week is over,” he says, kissing her hair.

She stays at the stables to bid him and Lysithea farewell.

* * *

“If you won’t speak with me, will you at least spar with me?”

He doesn’t lower his sword, nor does he bother to turn face her. Practically dragging his feet through the dirt, he huffs. He strikes the training dummy, then runs his fingers through the stray pieces of his hair that had fallen out, dampened by cool sweat.

“Fine,” he reluctantly agrees. “You’re a better opponent than this _stupid thing_ ,” he taps the dummy with his training sword for emphasis.

Normally, Byleth would be happy to finally spar with Felix. While their friendship started as a friendly rivalry on these training grounds, it had since grown past that. Felix always fought beside her in battle, despite his tendency to be a lone wolf. _“I’d be annoyed if something happened to my favorite sparring partner,”_ he told her many moons ago. And after her long sleep, Felix abandoned his title and joined Byleth again in the Resistance Army. He is her most trusted general, and her best military strategist by far (surpassing even her, she is reluctant to admit around others). And while he would _never_ use such labels, Byleth and Felix had become dearest friends through the trials of war.

But over the last week, she and Felix had each lost themselves in their grief. Byleth through painful nightmares and tears shed; Felix through isolating and masking his pain through training day and night. And with Felix avoiding even her, Byleths feels as though she has lost her dearest friend.

Even now, the training sword feels heavy in her hand. Despite Felix accepting the offer to spar, it feels like a grueling chore to have to join his training. Byleth longs for the old times, where it was enjoyable to spar with her friend. As they begin to cross blades, her feet feel… stuck. Everything feels… forced.

“Don’t go easy on me,” Felix snaps at her, tapping her sword hand with the tip of his wooden blade.

She hums a response, and parries his next move. She picks up her pace, but fights defensively, not even trying to strike him. He catches on quickly, and isn’t shy about voicing his annoyance.

“ _You_ are the one who wanted to spar! Can you fight like you give a damn?” She blinks.

I do give a damn, she thinks to herself. She grips her sword tighter, steps quicker, with more purpose. Pulling her head from her wallowing, she takes a moment to truly study her opponent. Her elusive opponent that has made himself scarce to her and everyone this past week–a ghost, existing only in the realms of her worries and the memories of better, simpler times that have soaked into the dirt and grit of the training grounds.

She noticed the other day that his form was slipping. It’s worse today. She can see the heaviness of his sword arm; it’s fatigued, lacking it’s normal precision. Felix tries to make up for his faltering accuracy with brute force. But it’s often misdirected because of the purple bruises under his eyes… nights of unrest. _Is he training even at night? Does he wake due to nightmares, or does he keep himself awake in fear of them?_ There’s a slight tremor in his legs when he guards against the swing of her sword. Coupled with his pallid, gaunt complexion, she determines Sylvain was correct. He is not eating.

These observations upset her, as it would anyone who sees a loved one not taking care of themselves. He is hurting, so much so that he is hurting himself. It makes Byleth’s stomach turn and heart twist in her chest. _I can’t lose you, too._

She begins to fight back with fervor. _Don’t go easy on you? I won’t, then, Fe._ He is caught off guard, and stumbles slightly back at her suddenly aggressive approach. He scowls when she laughs at him. “ _You_ are the one who wanted me to fight like I give a damn, right?”

“Tch, of course I did, don’t start holding back now,” he shoots back. He swings his sword heavy at her, but she is quicker, dodging his blade to spin to his left and she taps his arm a little harder than necessary.

“I win,” she says simply.

He growls in response. “Again.”

She wears him down, more than he already is. She points out his poor form and slipping stamina through her swordwork, winning match after match. But Felix does not relent; he only grows more unwound and upset.

“Again!” he shouts.

Byleth makes an exasperated noise, “Can we take a break, Felix? I need to talk to you.”

“I’m not interested in a break. I don’t want to talk. Now, again!” he demands, voice on edge. He knocks the wooden blade in her hand with his own, then turns around to ready himself for another bout. Byleth sighs, but raises her sword again. _Will he ever tire out? Perhaps her plan wasn’t working after all…_

“Felix, I had this dream the other day,” Byleth decides to speak to him while they spar, hoping that he will at least listen if he’s getting his way.

He grunts, and parries her blow. “I thought I said,” he breathes, as he tries to take advantage of an opening on her right side, “I don’t want to talk.”

Byleth ignores him. “Dimitri spoke to me in my dream,” she blurts.

His movement stutters, and he blinks, visibly caught off guard by her words. She easily could have capitalized on his hesitation and won the match right then and there, but she held back. Felix didn’t seem to notice.

He raises his sword and swings it down on her, but she easily guards the blow with her own blade. “You sound just like him, now,” he hisses, pressing his full weight into his sword down onto hers. “Glorifying and romanticizing the dead… such a waste of time.”

Byleth pushes off his blade with a huff. “He told me he wanted to explain his decision.”

She continues to fight forward as she speaks, Felix parrying each of her blows, barely keeping his balance as he is pushed back to the corner of the training grounds. “He was lost, looking for help. He died because I couldn’t help him… because I didn’t send the resources he needed–”

“To what? Help him in his quest for revenge, to enable his _blood lust_?” Felix crosses blades with her, more fierce and focused than before. “He _died_ because he became a monster.”

“We could have done more to help him. Faergus would have a _king_ if he was still alive,” Byleth fights back.

“The King of Faerghus died in Duscur, along with his father.”

Felix throws down his blade, and turns to step away, hands on his hips. He slows down to a stop, chest heaving with each breath. He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head.

“You’re just like the boar, Byleth. Living in the past. What’s done is done. The dead are _dead_ . The living are living. Move on,” he snaps, not turning his head to look at her. He waits a moment, waiting for her to say something. _Anything._

But she doesn’t.

He huffs, and marches out of the training grounds.

* * *

“I'm happy when we win battles, Professor,” Dorothea remarks, placing her cup back on the saucer. It was a sunny day, but since it was still early in the year, the temperature was quite brisk out. Nonetheless, such beautiful skies and blooming flowers begets enjoying a hot cup of tea out in the courtyard. And thank the goddess the tea is hot; Byleth’s hands are cold, and she wraps them around her cup perchance to steal some of its warmth.

She enjoys Dorothea’s company. She really does. But her mind has been foggy the last few days. Nights of fitful sleep have done little to remedy the situation, either. Byleth finds herself zoning out of the conversation.

“I'm always relieved when our friends make it back safe,” Dorothea continues. “On the other hand, it's hard to watch the enemy die. Even worse when it's someone you know.”

Byleth’s attention snaps back. She blinks, hands tightening on her cup. Dorothea pauses to take a sip of her tea. Byleth's mind races. _Do I have to speak now? What do I say? How do I respond to that?_

Thankfully, Dorothea carries on the conversation. “Perhaps it would have been better if I'd just stayed with the opera…” she sighs, shoulders slumping. _Oh goddess, now I_ have _to respond._

Byleth clears her throat. “Do you… regret it? Leaving the opera, I mean?”

Dorothea meets Byleth’s eyes. She grimaces softly, humming to herself as she considers her response. “I’m sure others might feel regret… but I'll never regret the choices I made, Professor. Now you just have to lead us to victory so everyone else can let go of their regrets, too,” she answers.

Byleth offers her a small smile and nods curtly. She stares down into her cup of tea, thinking of how she could drown herself in it.

“Do you have any regrets, Professor?”

* * *

She knocked on his door. There was no answer. _Did I really expect things to happen differently this time?_

She knocked twice. Three times. Still no answer.

She looked down into the bowls of Daphnel Stew she had brought for them from the dining hall. _His favorite._ The heat from the stew began to sting the bare skin on her arms that were cradling the bowls. She felt like she couldn’t swallow. Tear pickled at the corners of her eyes. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry…_

“Felix, I need to talk to you,” she says, knowing he’s listening. Her voice cracks. “Please,” she begs, sounding like a sob. She takes a measured breath, steadying herself. After waiting for what felt like an eternity, she hung her head in resignation. _Why did I think it would be different?_ She turned to leave.

The door swings open, light from his room glowing behind her. She stops, and meekly swings her head around to look at him.

“Felix,” she breathes. He stares back at her, hand on the door frame. “You look like shit.”

He presses his lips into a thin line. “I know.” They stand in uncomfortable silence. “You look like shit, too, y’know?”

A chuckle that sounds more like a breath leaves Byleth, like a breath of relief. She had missed him, she had worried for him. Felix takes a step back from the door frame, motioning for her to enter his room. Finally the tears stop burning her eyes, and she gives him a soft smile, and ducks into his room.

He closes the door behind them, and turns around, looking pointedly at the bowls of stew in her arms. “What’s that?” he asks.

“Oh, it’s stew. You need to eat.” She offers him one of the bowls, and after a moment of hesitation, he takes it and thanks her. He pulls out chairs for both of them to sit, and drags his end table out into the center of his room to act as a makeshift dining table. He scoops a bite of chicken and potatoes into his mouth, eyes closing and humming with satisfaction. They enjoy each other’s company while they eat quietly for a while. She wants–no, _needs_ to–talk to him, but is afraid that this is entirely the wrong moment. That he’ll turn her away again.

He’s mid-bite when she breaks the silence. “Are you OK?”

He chews, swallows… puts his spoon down. “I’m not,” he says dryly. She doesn’t breathe, even though she knew that much. “And neither are you.”

She finally takes a breath, and nods in silent agreement. “They used to call my father the ‘Shield of Faerghus.’ Now, he's gone. And a man I once called my friend… gone.” She is at a loss for words. They grieve the same loss, but she feels like she’s not allowed to be upset about it like Felix. They were closer to him, having a literal lifetime of history together... her grieving meant nothing in comparison. She feels almost shameful that she’s as upset as she is at their deaths.

“I’m sorry,” is all she can manage.

“You wanted to talk?” he changes the topic, picking back up his spoon for another bite.

“Yes,” she says, voice thin and unsure. _Please listen, don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave._ “It… it’s about my dream.”

He frowns deeply, and stops eating. “Byleth, I _don’t_ want to–”

“Felix, I _need_ you to hear me. Just… hear me,” she pleads. He looks at her for a beat, then his expression softens. Bowing his head, he responds, “OK. I am listening.”

Another deep breath. “I can’t stop thinking about seeing him my dream...” She closes her eyes and can picture Dimitri again… clear as day, like he was right in front of her. “I saw him. We spoke. And I can’t stop thinking… I… We… could have helped him, Fe.”

“How?” He interjects, resting his forehead on his fist. “Byleth, it was a _dream_. There’s nothing we can do now. We can’t go back and help him.”

She raises her head to look at him, and sets her jaw. “I can.”

He peeks at her from behind his fist, then clamps his eyes shut again and shakes his head. “What…” He pinches the bridge of his nose in irritation. “What in goddess’ name do you mean?”

Byleth steels herself. She waits for him to look her in the eye before she speaks again.

“Do you remember the day I escaped the darkness?”

Felix nods.

“My hair turned this color,” she recounts, touching her mint tresses. “The goddess gave me her full power so I could escape the darkness. My hair and eyes changed. But even before that day, the goddess was with me.” He just looked at her, confused. So she continued.

“Ever since I can remember, the goddess was always with me in my dreams. She spoke to me every day. She granted me her power to go back in time.”

She pauses and tries to read Felix’s expression. He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again. He scrunches up his face again. “Why… no, _how_?”

“I don’t know why or how… I tried talking to Seteth about these things… why I have no heartbeat, yet I live… why I have this bond with the goddess… I want to know why I have these powers, but he doesn’t know either. Rhea knows, but I fear I’ll never get another chance to ask her,” Byleth explains dejectedly.

“Hold on,” Felix puts his elbow on the table, and puts his hand up in the air to stop her from continuing, “back up. You can _go_ _back in time_?”

“Yes, I use that power to help in battle often–”

“You’re joking,” Felix interrupts.

Byleth recalls a vivid memory, from back in their academy days. She furrows her brow at the thought. “I saw you die, Felix.”

_Her battalion is on the north end of town, nearly finished securing the buildings and shops from the bandits. She had accompanied Felix to this village in Fraldarius territory to help his father Rodrigue manage the thieves who have been terrorizing the villagers. An easy enough job, Byleth thinks, as she sheathes her sword. Just as she is rounding up her men to move east to meet up with the other battalion, she hears it._

_A scream. The most gut-wrenching thing she’d ever heard._

_“FELIX!”_

_The Duke’s voice booms down the streets. Byleth’s heart sinks. She pushes through her men and runs down the village street in the direction of the scream._

_“We need healers,_ now _!” She can hear the Duke yelling as she approaches. She grabs the Sword of the Creator and takes out two bandits who were approaching the Duke. Looking over, it appeared to be Felix cradled in the Duke’s arms. If her heart did beat, she’s sure it would have stopped. Instead, it just hurt. There is confusion and disarray amongst the men in the Fraldarius battalion; Byleth shouts orders to the men to hold off the bandits toward the south, and hurries over toward Rodrigue and Felix._

_The site before her causes her feet to falter. Rodrigue, kneels in the middle of the street, clutching his son to his chest. He whispers prayers to the goddess over and over again into Felix’s hair. His eyes are wide open, staring as a few healers moved about the two of them. His eyes are haunting. Just… staring. Empty._

_Bright crimson stains the fur trim of Felix’s jacket. It soaks through the right side of it by his ribs, enough to dampen Rodrigue’s gloved hand that found purchase there, still trying to apply pressure to the wound. Felix’s body is limp, his face stilled. His head lolls in towards his father’s chest, and Byleth sees congealed blood caked into his hair at the back of his head, smeared over his ear and down his pale neck._

_Healers speak in hushed whispers to each other, frowning. One of them kneels before the Duke, saying a few words to him before holding the back of his son’s head and gently closing his eyelids with her other hand. She rises, bows quickly, and leaves the two of them, wiping her bloodied hands on her robes._

_“My son,” Rodrigue wails, broken. Byleth has to look away; she feels like she is going to be sick, nearly dropping her blade. “My son.”_

“Your father _cried_ for you…” Felix freezes across from her. His face hardens. “I couldn’t live with myself if I had allowed that to happen. I… I couldn’t go on without my friend,” she admits, a few tears escaping the corner of her eye. She quickly wipes them away.

Felix studies her face, then pinches the bridge of his nose again. “OK.”

Byleth sits uncomfortably. “What?” she asks dumbly.

“I said ‘OK,’” Felix repeats, folding his arms across his chest.

“You believe me?”

“You’ve never given me a reason not to trust you, Byleth.”

She sits back in stunned silence. She never thought anyone would believe her. “Thank you. I…” she stutters, unsure of how to come out and just say what she came here to say.

“Felix, I thought about what you said yesterday, a-and… you’re right. I need to move on. I want to move on,” she says clenching her fist under the table. “I can’t feel this hurt anymore. I can’t see others hurt anymore. So... I am going to go back and stop this war. I… I have to try.”

Felix folds his arms on the table and leans forward. “You’re going to go back and kill Edelgard?”

Byleth would be lying if she said thE thought had never crossed her mind. But whenever the idea crosses her… she hesitates. Like she does now.

“She is misguided… she is hurting, too. Just like Dimitri,” she tries to explain. He looks at her intently. She’s thankful that he’s letting her speak on the matter, as she knows how strongly he feels about the Adrestian emperor. “Remember Solon and Kronya?”

“Yes, the ones who killed your father. The ones Edelgard worked with–”

“I know, I know… and before the war, Edelgard and Hubert told me they were working with them because they had to. Because they were too powerful to oppose, and they needed their help to oppose the church, to fight Rhea.”

“That doesn’t absolve her guilt!”

“Felix, I know!” she raises her voice at him, and he stiffens in response. “All I am trying to say is that… we… we don’t have all the information. There’s terrible things that Rhea did on behalf of the church that Edelgard told me about. There’s so much that we do not know... There’s… a bigger enemy here than the Empire.”

Byleth pauses to breathe, to gather her thoughts. To unclench her fist. “If I could have more time… more time to get more information… to understand... perhaps the Empire, Alliance, and Kingdom could work together?”

“Tch, you could just kill her and prevent the war,” Felix says sharply, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest again. “ _She_ let Kronya into these walls. _She_ killed _Dimitri_ , Byleth.”

“I…” she feels her lip tremble. “I have to try… we have to try.”

Felix makes another dismissive sound. “If you go back,” he says, motioning in her direction, “you’ll be the only one who knows what you do. You’ll be alone.”

“I know,” she murmurs, her voice small. 

Felix looks at her, the flickering candlelight making the tears in her eyes glisten. Tears that she tries so hard to not let fall. He has seen her cry on a few occasions–he hates it. He hates seeing her this way. He hates himself for letting her cry these past several days, for not being there for her. She kept reaching out to him, _to take care of him_ , and all he did was turn her away. What a terrible friend, he thinks to himself.

He clears his throat, and uncrosses his arms. “When you go back, tell me everything,” he says decidedly.

Byleth’s mouth drops open in surprise. “Felix… we spent years together… we _know_ each other…” she shakes her head. “Do you think that you will believe me when I just meet you?”

He reaches for her hand, and runs his calloused thumb over her knuckles. “I pledged my sword to you in this life. I find it hard to believe that I wouldn’t do that in every life, Byleth.”

She holds back a sob. “What if you don’t?”

“I will,” he assures her, removing his hand from hers to wipe a tear from her cheek. “Just tell me something only I would know. And be yourself.” His hand covers hers again.

“OK,” she sniffles. He lets out a laugh at her copying his deadpan response. She smiles at him, and laughs, too. But then she looks down, serious again. “Can there really be a world outside of this?” Her voice is small.

“We have to try, Byleth.”

She nods, turning her hand over to grasp onto his. They sit for a few moments like this, both unsure of what to say next.

“So what happens when you go back? Are you just… gone?” Felix asks, trying his best not to sound nervous. “Can I go with you?”

Byleth smiles at him sadly. “You can’t come with me. And once I get back, you won’t remember anything… I don’t know what happens to… this. Here… you, here…”

There’s another long pause between them. “I’m sorry, I wish I had answers,” she laments.

Felix squeezes her hand, and she looks up at him. “Well, go back and find the answers,” he tells her. “And wherever I am, I will wait for you, my friend.”

* * *

She stops at her father’s grave that night.

Her eyes and face are raw from days of crying, but she can’t help a few more tears from falling.

_“Sorry. It looks like...I'm going to have to leave you now.”_

_She holds onto his cloak so tightly. She can’t breathe. Rain starts to fall softly around them, the sky weeping… making it difficult to distinguish raindrops from the tears that flowed freely down Byleth’s face, falling onto her father’s face._

_Jeralt looks up, grimacing in pain. But it turns into a smile as he closes his eyes once more._

_“To think that the first time I saw you cry...your tears would be for me. It's sad, and yet...I'm happy for it. Thank you...kid.”_

_Byleth feels her father go limp in her arms. Her tears burn white hot down her face, even in the cold rain. She can barely hear Dimitri calling out after her over her own sobs as she tries to get enough of a breath between tears._

“I’ll see you again soon, father,” Byleth whispers into the darkness.

“Sothis, it’s time.”

“Are you sure you want to do this, Byleth?” the goddess inquires. “There’s no going back to this time.”

Byleth nods. “I have to do this.”

“As you wish, child. I cannot stop you,” Sothis says. “But I will be with you when you awake.”

Byleth takes one last look around her. The last few people were leaving the cathedral for the night, walking across the bridge. The cathedral itself was illuminated with a golden glow, contrasting with the inky black sky. It was beautiful–a pillar of light and hope amid the darkness, chaos, and turmoil of war.

_"When your path is dark and you feel that you are unable to walk it… have faith.”_

“Thank you, Sothis.” Her eyes flutter shut, and time shatters like a thousand scintillating shards around her. 

* * *

“Hey. Time to wake up.”

Byleth jolts forward in bed.

“Were you having that dream again?”

 _That voice._ She rubs her eyes, trying to adjust her vision to the darkness. Her legs feel heavy like boulders as she slides them over the side of the bed to sit up properly. “A… dream…?” she asks sleepily.

She looks up again at the man in the doorway, squinting to make out his figure in the darkness. He laughs at her.

“In any case, just put that out of your mind for now. The battlefield is no place for idle thoughts. Risking your life is part of the job. Letting your mind wander is a sure way to get yourself killed.”

Byleth nods, her eyes wide at the man before her.

“OK, time to get moving,” he continues. “Our next job is in the Kingdom. I told you before. It’s far from here, so we’ll–”

“Father?” Byleth murmurs, standing.

“Huh? Yeah… is everything alright, Byleth?” he asks her, concerned.

She walks toward him. “I’m OK,” she answers, studying her father’s face. It’s been so long… too long… “O-oh dear, I’m shaking.” She stumbles and nearly faints.

Her father moves in to help her stay upright. “Hey, hey, take it easy, kiddo,” he says, steadying her.

“Father,” she declares, voice cracking with emotion. She hugs him tightly. Her heart finally hurt a little less. _I missed you so much, father._

“Must’ve been some dream you had!” He hugs her back.

“It was a nightmare,” Byleth whispers into his chest.

He pats her on the back, and they step away from each other. Jeralt still has a hand on his daughter’s shoulder to steady her. “Are you sure you’re gonna be OK, kid? Everyone is already waiting for us outside.”

“Y-yes. I’m sorry. I’ll get ready,” she says, surveying the room for her belongings. Jeralt shoots her one last concerned look, then leaves the room to head outside. Byleth finds her boots, and pulls them onto her feet. The room has a mirror, and she pauses to look at herself. Her hair was back to it’s normal dark teal color, her eyes back to indigo.

“It’s almost like looking at another person, isn’t it?” Sothis chimes in, startling Byleth who has to grab hold of the wall to stop from falling down completely. She spins around and sees the emerald-haired goddess lounging on the bed.

“Sothis!”

“Hush now, don’t be too loud!” the goddess chastises. “We wouldn’t want people to hear you talking to me… that would be,” she yawns, “troublesome.”

Byleth nods, a huge smile on her face.

“Oh look at you! I’m flattered you’re happy to see me, Byleth, but _listen_!”

Byleth stops and hears her father shouting for her. She quickly reaches for her pack and sword, rushing out of the room. “Prepare yourself, child. Remember who you’ll be meeting out there,” Sothis reminds her.

The walk outside is a blur, like everything was moving in slow motion. She hears other voices outside as she approaches the threshold. “Please forgive our intrusion. We wouldn’t bother you were the situation not dire. We’re being pursued by a group of bandits. I can only hope that you will be so kind as to lend your support.”

 _That’s..._ his _voice._

“It's true. They attacked us while we were at rest in our camp,” a female voice this time. Byleth flinches at the sound.

“We’ve been separated from our companions and we’re outnumbered,” a third voice chimes in. “They’re after our lives...”

“And probably your gold, too,” Byleth finishes the young man’s thought, walking outside to join her father. The young man stared back at her a moment, and then smiled at her. “Exactly! Man, I would hate for anything to happen to us, but I do _not_ want to be the one who has to explain to Seteth where our gold went.” She smiles back at him. _Claude._ He looks so young with his smooth face and mussed hair. His eyes were brighter, too. It had been so long since she’s heard his laugh; it warms her heart.

Her father interjects. “Well, I’m impressed you’re staying so calm considering the situation. I… Wait. That uniform…”

“Yes, we are students at the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery,” the girl explains to her father, pushing a lock of her silver hair behind her shoulder. _Edelgard._ “The bandits followed us all the way here, unfortunately.” _The bandits_ you _hired_ , Byleth thinks to herself darkly. She tries to maintain a neutral expression.

Her eyes flutter back to the ground, nervous to look at _him_.

“Hey, kid. Go with the students and take care of those thieves before they overrun the village. I’ll go get the others and meet up with you,” her father says gruffly.

Byleth nods. “Alright, let’s move into the forest up ahead. Follow me,” she directs them. She sees a blonde head of hair walk up beside her out of the corner of her eye. She’s afraid to look. _Why am I afraid to look at him?_ She feels his hand gently tap her arm to get her attention.

_“It has been a lifetime... hasn’t it, Professor?”_

She sets her jaw, and swallows the lump in her throat. _Ah, that’s why._ She tilts her head in his direction.

“Thank you. We are in your debt,” he says, keeping pace with her.

She finally musters up enough courage to look. Turning her head to face at him, she wants to cry. He bows his head slightly to give thanks. He looks… he looks… well-rested. A sight she hadn’t seen in years, she nearly forgot how it looked on him. She breathes a sigh of relief. She smiles up at him shyly. “It wouldn’t do for us to fall in a place like this. Please, lend us your strength. Let’s work together to drive out these thieves!” he continues.

“Of course, Dimitri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I finally finished all four routes of the game, ending with the Silver Snow route. The scene where Dimitri visits Byleth as a ghost really made me feel things... (aka i cried like a baby, so i feel u byleth). Basically that scene really inspired this whole fic. I also wanted to explore a Byleth that struggled with her emotions, because throughout the game she experiences so much emotional growth, and I wanted to honor that.
> 
> I have many more chapters planned and started, so I will see you in the next one! (｡◕‿◕｡✿)


	2. The Magician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bernadetta does some digging. Felix has a bad sparring day. Hubert does a nice thing? Edelgard sees something she shouldn’t have. A spy is discovered. And Byleth works on her assigned reading.
> 
> "How? Nothing will come of nothing. Speak again."  
>  _-King Lear, 1.1.90_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your patience between chapters! As you can see, this chapter kinda spiralled out of control into a 20k+ monster. Welp, yikes. I hope it is worth the wait for you, though! I appreciate all your comments and kudos--the next chapter will be posted before the end of January! *pinky promise*

“You fool!”

Byleth watches Dimitri’s eyebrows raise in surprise as they head toward the edge of the forest. “Oh,” he responds, clearing his throat, “I must apologize. Have we met?”

“Byleth, stop this—”

“I—” Byleth mind reels, realization finally dawning on her between the look on Dimitri’s face and Sothis yelling at her. _Oh._

“I overheard you… and the others talking earlier,” Byleth manages, unable to speak in a confident enough cadence. “Your name _is_ Dimitri, right?” She adds to fill the uncomfortable silence growing between them, trying desperately to cover her mistake.

She feels the goddess’ small hands curl around her left shoulder. “Byleth, are you even _listening_ to me,” she seethes into her ear, giving her shoulder a shake.

_Yes, I hear you._

“Then turn back. I can’t believe you blew it already!”

Byleth realizes Dimitri has been trying to talk to her for goddess knows how long. It was impossible to keep her thoughts straight, much less be attentive to the conversation with Sothis practically screaming in her ear. “Are you alright?” he asks her, his expression showing his concern.

“Hey, don’t ignore me!”

“I’m fine,” she breathes, in part to Dimitri but also to Sothis, looking ahead to the forest. She notices movement at the edge of the clearing. _The bandits._ They were nearly 30 paces away from them. _Shit._ She abruptly stops, and ducks down behind a patch of brush.

“Are you sure you’re—” Dimitri yelps as she grabs the material of his officer’s cloak and yanks him down in the brush next to her. “What’s—”

She cuts him off. “They’re up ahead. Stay down for a second.” She breathes, looking around for the other two lords. “Where _are_ they?”

“You’ll need more than a second to figure out a plan! And you lost track of the others? You idiot!” Sothis berates her. Byleth grimaces. She peeks over the brush and sees the bandits begin to move toward them. _Shit._ Her grip tightens on her sword.

“Byleth, you fool! You absolute _fool_!” Sothis is beside her now in the brush, her fingers digging into the flesh of her forearm. “Turn back, now!”

 _I’ll be fine_ , Byleth assures her. She moves into a crouch, ready to spring up at the bandits. They were close to them now, surveying the clearing. She takes count of the bandits — _a dozen? Or more?_ Her mind begins to race. She looks at Dimitri, who is looking back at her intently, waiting for orders. _Weren’t there only six last time?_

“It doesn’t matter how many there are. You can stay here and get you both killed by some ragtag bandits, or you can TURN BACK—”

 _I can take them, it’s fine._ Byleth moves to lift up out of her crouch, sword ready to swing, but Sothis practically pushes her back down into the brush. Two bandits sense the rustling and begin to move toward Byleth and Dimitri.

“If you weren’t such a lovesick fool, blurting out his name like that, we wouldn’t be in this situation!” Sothis says, fuming. “If you would FOCUS for once, you wouldn’t have lost the other two, and you and your prince wouldn’t about to be killed by these amateurs.”

Byleth doesn’t breathe for a moment. _Wow, I really messed this one up._

“Yeah, you did! Now turn back—stop waiting around!”

She feels Dimitri lift up into a crouch, his arm and body moving to shield her from the approaching bandits as they begin to push through the brush.

“TURN BACK—”

Byleth closes her eyes, and time shatters around her. She thinks she hears Sothis sigh in relief. Opening her eyes again, she is walking away from the village. Glancing around, she does a headcount. Dimitri is walking beside her, and Edelgard and Claude are only a few footsteps behind them. She finally takes a breath, after what felt like an eternity.

“Let’s work together to drive out these thieves!” Dimitri declares, looking down at her.

She smiles up at him, that is, until Sothis interrupts. “Hey now, get your head out of the clouds! Didn’t I tell you to _focus_?” Byleth hums in response, and looks ahead to the edge of the forest.

“So what’s the plan?” Claude chimes in from behind her.

Byleth slows her step, and motions for the three to listen. “You two will head west, and work your way around the brush over there,” she points at Edelgard and Claude, then to the foliage in the distance behind them. “You will lead and follow the brush up to the clearing before the edge of the woods,” Byleth instructs the white-haired princess. She gives an apprehensive nod in return.

“I need you to cover her. Stay a few paces behind, use the brush for cover.” Claude grins, but Byleth catches it. “And _don’t_ try and be a hero. We’re outnumbered, so this isn’t the time for games.”

Edelgard huffs in agreement; Claude sighs, but intensity and curiosity flash in his eyes when he meets Byleth’s gaze with an affirmative shake of his head. “We,” she continues, motioning to herself and Dimitri, “will cut through that way.” She points at a northbound clearing. “We’ll meet up with you two at the edge of the forest.”

Movement in the distance from the bandits catch Byleth’s eye. “They’re over that way,” she says gruffly, grabbing the hilt of her sword. “It’s time to move out. Let the bandits come to you, and don’t venture too close to the forest. We don’t need any surprises. Looks like there’s about a dozen of them,” she advises. The three lords vocalize their agreement, and the group splits up - gold and crimson cloaks billowing west, and cobalt following Byleth.

“You’ll cover me?” Byleth asks her golden-haired companion, voice meek and questioning compared to earlier. She tries to ignore Sothis snorting in laughter. 

“Of course! I am— I mean to say, _we_ are grateful for your help. I will lend you my strength,” he tells her, still as earnest as ever. They continue their path through the clearing, and they catch sight of a pair of bandits ahead. Dimitri’s pace quickens and the grip on his lance tightens; he steps out ahead of Byleth by a few paces, as if to put himself between her and the danger ahead, she notices with a particular fondness.

“Old habits die hard… isn’t that what they say?”

_Well, you’re certainly in a better mood now._

“Of course I am! Now you’re back to your old self, Byleth… leading people, swinging your sword, and… _that_ ,” she snickers.

Byleth hums in confusion. _What do you mean, ‘that?’_

Sothis only laughs in response, but Byleth can’t spare another moment’s thought on the matter. Dimitri goads one of the bandits to engage him, while Byleth quickens her pace to land a swift attack on the other one. As her opponent crumples to the ground, she looks over to her cover, whose lance makes quick work of a leather shield and a worn blade.

They work together to push through a few more bandits until they reach the edge of the clearing. Looking west, Byleth sees Edelgard and Claude moving to meet them, the archer sending an arrow behind him to lay down another bandit. “Is that all of ‘em?” he asks.

Byleth scans the perimeter of the forest, looking for any other stragglers and the group’s leader. She sees movement in the forest, but before she can open her mouth to speak, Edelgard notices the same thing.

“There,” she declares, pointing to where Byleth saw them. “There’s more in the forest. Shall we go?”

Nodding, Byleth paces toward the forest, the three lords following behind her. “We need to stick together. Hey… you,” she hesitates before blurting another name, and points at Claude instead. He nods, eyebrows raised in question. “I need you to cover us. Be our eyes.”

“You got it,” he laughs, notching an arrow. Byleth can’t help but smile softly at his levity. While hardly appropriate for any scenario such as the one they found themselves in… it was bittersweet to hear something other than fear, pain, or the cold indifference one develops from years of battle, war, and death.

They are quick to find the remaining bandits in the woods. Dimitri and Edelgard finished off a pair of ruffians, while Byleth caught a glimpse of their leader. She called for Claude to follow her as she stalked between the trees. She laughed darkly to herself as she very quickly realized the bandit leader was running away from them. He too realized he was being pursued.

“These fuckin’ kids…” Byleth hears him growl. There’s more crunching of leaves behind her, and a quick glance back reveals it’s only Dimitri and Edelgard catching up to them. The woods keep growing darker and thicker, and after a few minutes, Byleth and the lords lost their lead on the bandit leader.

Byleth stands and spins around, looking in all directions for any movement, noise, or anything… but all directions look the same. She huffs, and kicks up some leaves with the toe of her boot in frustration. “I can’t believe we lost him,” she grumbles.

“Should we keep searching for him?” Dimitri asks, “Or should we head back to the village and meet up with the other—”

“Shh,” Byleth hushes him, holding up her hand in his direction. She listens intently, motioning for the lords to remain still and silent. _I thought I heard someone_ …

“You’ll die!”

Byleth indeed did hear someone… the bandit leader, who likely waited in the darkness of the forest for the group of them to stop. She spun in the direction of his voice to see him raising an axe to Edelgard, who is also caught by surprise. Claude and Dimitri step forward in reaction… but Byleth remains still.

“Are you doing to intervene?” Sothis asks her.

 _Should I?_ The goddess only hums in response, and watches the scene unfold with Byleth.

Edelgard is clearly caught off guard, and her expression is not one that Byleth remembered seeing often. The princess always kept a perfectly manicured demeanor and expression, never betraying a lick of emotion. And yet, in this moment, Edelgard's face is unlike anything Byleth has ever seen from her.

 _Vulnerability._ A dawning realization that she is the target… and far too big a target, as she tucks her limbs in close to her body, making herself smaller. Wishing she could disappear altogether. _Desperation._ She struggles to find purchase on the handle of her axe to perhaps counter the one flying down on her, but her hands are trembling and sweating and not doing all the things she needs them to do. _Fear._ Reaching inside her uniform, she pulls out a dagger and wields it with a shaking arm to try and defend herself… but her arm is shaking because she knows a dagger will do nothing to stop an axe.

When the axe meets her shoulder, it’s a sickening crunch as the heft of the blade crushes her collarbone. Her legs crumple beneath her, under the weight of the axe and the dizzying amount of shock and pain. Blood soaks quickly into her uniform, and when the bandit leader removes his axe, the material of her coat snags slightly on the blade, pulling flesh along with it. Edelgard makes a whining noise when the weapon is removed from her. The white of her blouse starts to bloom with crimson within seconds. Byleth can see her bones splintered, stinging, exposed in the cool air. 

The dagger slips from her grasp and blood drips heavily, pattering softy onto the leaves between her shallow breaths. Her other arm went slack the moment the blade met her shoulder, and now just hangs on her shuddering frame, lifeless. Lavender eyes meet Byleth’s—wide and wild.

_Fear._

A look Byleth has become far too familiar with… the last flicker of emotion on someone's face before they leave this realm. It's unnerving to see it on the princess. Edelgard, who usually bears the face of a statue, smooth and unmoving as marble… 

Byleth never realized that blood would stain her snowy tresses, as it does now. Byleth never realized that the future empress would bow to anyone, as she is now.

Edelgard wheezes and looks up at the sky peaking through the treetops. So far away, she thinks to herself. Edelgard never realized that she would miscalculate this badly, as she has now. She flinches as she sees the axe rise above her once more. Regret simmers inside of her, making her shoulder sting all the more. “I’ve failed… Father...” she whimpers.

Time shatters around Byleth, but she takes a moment to steel herself, ebullient fractures of time floating around her like shards of glass in an inky abyss. She’s not alone.

“Why did you do that?” Sothis demands, looking at her fiercely with hands on her hips.

“It’s not—”

“Not what you wanted?” the goddess finishes Byleth’s thought. “Do you forget why you came all the way back here?”

At first, she thought she might enjoy seeing the flow of time uninterrupted.

For as many times as Byleth considered the outcome of a battle with Edelgard… For the trail of bloodshed on her journey to end the Empire… For as long as she resigned herself to accept that Edelgard would have to die for the war to end… But all of that is all in a past life, now.

She didn't enjoy seeing what she did. She couldn't continue watching it.

“I came here to prevent the war,” Byleth explains firmly.

“After _everything_ she did to you? To _everyone_? This seems like a really easy way to prevent the war,” Sothis snaps back.

Byleth pinches the bridge of her nose. “This doesn’t give me a chance to prevent anything,” she retorts, still shaken by the gruesome scene. “I want to help things, not stand idly to watch more innocent people suffer.”

“You _really_ consider her to be innocent?” Sothis fired back. “Don’t be so dense, Byleth”

“She hasn’t started a war yet!”

“ _Yet_! You’re really going to give her a chance to do so again?”

A breath. Byleth’s eyes close as the shards of time knit back together once again. _No, Sothis. I am giving her a chance to change._

Byleth opens her eyes, and draws her sword immediately. She steps quickly over to Edelgard, and she recoils, a similar fear flickering across her face again. “Huh?” she gasps. The princess reaches for her weapon, but Byleth shoots her a stern look. _Trust me._

“You’ll die!” the bandit leader yells again. Except this time, Byleth knows exactly which tree he’s going to jump out from behind. His axe comes down heavy, but Byleth’s sword is there to parry the blow. She pushes his weapon back with her sword, then uses the hilt of her blade to disarm him, knocking the axe to the ground. He stumbles backward.

“Aw man, the boss is gonna kill me for this,” he moans. He abandons his axe, and makes a run for it, deeper into the forest. Claude and Dimitri move as if they were going to chase after him.

“You’re going to let him get away?” Dimitri questions. His brow is furrowed, an anxious grip on his lance. Byleth sheathes her sword.

“Yes,” she answers plainly. The two boys audibly sigh and reluctantly relax the grip on their weapons. “It sounds like his boss is going to take care of him, anyway,” she adds, making eye contact with Edelgard. The princess raises her gaze to meet Byleth, and swallows. 

“Are you hurt?” Byleth asks her.

“No, I am fine,” she remarks. Byleth watches as her cool, emotionless mask returns. Before either could say anything else, the sound of horse hooves through the forest catches Byleth and the three lords’ attentions.

“Hey, kid…” Jeralt starts, reining his horse to a stop before them. “Did you… well, looks like you took care of everything.”

Byleth smiles at her father, and nods, earning a laugh from her father. “Ah, looks like you beat me to it…” he pauses and his horse whinnies as everyone hears more horse hooves approaching. “Are you sure you got them all, kid?”

Byleth and the lords reach for their weapons when a group of three men on horseback approach through the thicket of the forest. The lords put their weapons back and relax upon the sight of them, and Byleth too, when she sees the familiar Seiros crest on their armor and hears the booming voice of their captain.

“The Knights of Seiros are here! We'll cut you down for terr— Hey! The students seem to be unharmed. And... who's this?” The brunette stares down at Byleth from his horse. She hears her father groan behind her.

“And is that who I think it is?” He continues, now looking at her father. “Captain Jeralt?”

Byleth stifles her laughter as her father suffers through a reunion with his old friend, Alois. She knows they will be convinced by the Knights’ captain to accompany them back to the monastery, so she turns and walks over to the three lords.

Edelgard catches her attention as she approaches them. “I appreciate your help back there. Your skill is beyond question. You’re clearly an experienced mercenary. And your father, that would be Jeralt, the Blade Breaker? Former captain of the Knights of Seiros. Oft praised as the strongest knight to ever live. Have I missed something?”

Before Byleth can open her mouth to answer, Sothis clears her throat loudly. “Don’t go and mess this up again! Remember, you’re supposed to know nothing,” the goddess advises.

“The… Knights of... Seiros?” Byleth tries her best to sound confused, and must have succeeded because she can hear Sothis chuckling softly.

“You haven’t heard of the Knights of Seiros?” Edelgard questions, taken aback. “The most famous order of knights in all of Fódlan?”

“Hey, no need to be condescending, princess! She’s coming with us to the monastery, right? She’ll learn all about the Knights when we get there,” Claude interjects, throwing an arm over Edelgard’s shoulders. She shrugs him off immediately, folding her arms across her chest.

“Oh, I should mention that the three of us are students at the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery,” he continues.

“I’ve already told her that, Claude,” Edelgard scoffs. “Well, I am no mere student. I am also the Adrestian Empire’s—”

“Halt, Edelgard. All three of us are more than just students. We each are leading our respective houses at the Officers Academy, and we—”

“Oh, joy. A royal debate between Their Highnesses,” Claude chuckles, nudging Byleth’s shoulder as the other two lords argue back and forth. “I’m sorry you have to listen to them… I wish I could tell you they’re not always like this, but unfortunately this is their thing.”

Byleth giggles, “Oh, I can imagine.”

The archer smiles down at her. “Say, capable stranger, let’s get right to it. Who are you? Where does your allegiance lie,” he asks playfully.

“My name’s Byleth, and I’m just a mercenary with my father… so we have no real home. We travel everywhere,” she tells him, toeing the leaves on the ground nervously. _Why am I nervous?_

He gives her an easy smile. “Well, Byleth, you had to have been born somewhere? From where do you hail, my dear lady?”

She laughs at his joke, but furrows her brow in thought at his question. _Where am I from?_ “I… I guess I don’t know?” she answers honestly.

“How peculiar…” Sothis chimes in.

“You don’t know where you were born?” Claude asks incredulously. Byleth shakes her head. “Huh, that’s certainly interesting,” he muses. His face then lights up, “Would you want to figure out where—” Then his face falls.

“Hey, Byleth… are you OK?”

She looks back at Claude, tilting her head in confusion.

“Your nose is bleeding,” he says, pointing to her face.

Her brow furrows, and she reaches up to touch her face. She removes her fingers, and they are coated in blood. “Oh,” she manages. The wetness drips down her face. “I don’t remember getting hit...”

“Maybe it was when we were fighting those bandits?” Claude suggests, offering her a handkerchief to clean up.

“Perhaps.”

  
  


* * *

“It’s been _years_ since I’ve last set eyes on this place…” Jeralt muses, as Byleth and him follow a pair of monks into the audience chamber. The sound of their boots on the marble floors echo about, and despite keeping their conversation hushed, their voices reverberate around the room as well.

“You never told me you’ve been here before…”

“I know, I know… many years ago, I was a kni—”

“A knight here,” Byleth cuts him off, finishing his sentence. “The _Blade Breaker._ ”

“Those brats must have told you. Ugh,” Jeralt groans.

Byleth averts her gaze to the floor. “Why did you never tell me any of these things?”

“I’m sorry, kid,” Jeralt says. “I tried to leave that all behind.”

“Why leave?”

“You were born, and…” He begins, trailing off. Byleth gives hims an inquiring look, pressing him to finish his thought. “Rhea.”

“Byleth. Remember what he wrote about her in his journal,” Sothis says, more of an order than a question.

  
  
  


_“I don’t know what Lady Rhea has planned. I used to think the world of Lady Rhea. Now I’m terrified of her.”_

  
  
  


“Rhea?” Byleth asks, blinking at the memory of her father’s words.

“You saw her in the courtyard earlier, didn’t you? She’s the archbishop—”

“Ugh, we know _who_ she is!” Sothis whines. The doors to the audience chamber open once again, interrupting both the goddess and Jeralt. “Speak of the demon and it shall appear,” she whispers, shrinking away behind Byleth.

“Thank you for your patience, Jeralt. My name is Seteth. I am an advisor to the archbishop.” His face is stern, just as Byleth remembers. Golden circlet matching the gold embroidery on his tunic, hands clasped tightly behind his back as he greets her father.

“Right. Hello,” Jeralt responds gruffly.

“It has been a long time, Jeralt,” Rhea’s soft voice rings melodiously throughout the chamber. “I wonder… was it the will of the goddess that we have another chance meeting like this?”

Byleth can sense the irritation rolling off of her father in waves. “Forgive my silence all these years,” he says, barely raising his eyes to meet the archbishop’s. “Much has happened since we last spoke.”

“So I see. The miracle of fatherhood has blessed you. This is your child, is it not?” Rhea inquires. She tilts her head at Byleth, evaluating her.

“Yes… born many years after I left this place. I wish I could introduce you to the mother of my child…” he coughs, then raises his head. His gaze burns into Rhea, eyes hard and jaw clenched. “But I’m afraid we lost her to illness.”

Byleth feels a tug on the sleeve of her coat. She looks down at Sothis, who is staring wide eyed at Jeralt. “Are you _seeing_ this?” she whispers. Byleths nods, and gently shakes the goddess off her sleeve.

“I see,” Rhea replies, her face soft, the corners of her mouth frowning slightly. “My condolences. As for you,” she changes the topic, turning to face Byleth. “I heard of your valiant efforts from Alois. What is your name, dear child?”

“My name is Byleth Eisner.”

“A fine name indeed. My dear, I am called Rhea. I am the archbishop of the Church of Seiros. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for saving those students of the Officers Academy.”

Jeralt clears his throat loudly.

“I’m really starting to grow fond of your father, Byleth,” Sothis says, stifling a laugh at Jeralt’s brusque behavior.

“Jeralt… You already know what it is I wish to ask, do you not?” Rhea asks, her saccharine tone coming off as rather... condescending.

“You’re going to ask me to rejoin the Knights of Serios, aren’t you? I can’t refuse…”

 _Why can’t you refuse?_ Byleth thinks to herself. Sothis shrugs her shoulders.

“Your apprehension stings.” Rhea’s eyes close gently, and she sighs softly. “Nonetheless, Alois will be speaking with you soon. Please listen carefully to what he has to say.”

She turns to Byleth. “Alois also recommended you to be a professor here at the Officers Academy. One of the monks will help you find Professors Hanneman and Manuela. Please speak to them; they will tell you more. Until tomorrow… Farewell.”

Rhea practically floats out of the chamber, Seteth close on her heels. As she passes Byleth, she smiles down at her, the corner of her eyes crinkling. The smell of lilies wafts delicately in her wake, the only accompaniment for Byleth and her father.

“Father, why did you _really_ leave the Knights?” she breaks the silence first.

“You were born, Byleth. The most important thing in my life was ensuring I could be there for you to raise you and protect you... to keep you safe,” he responds, syllables clipped. Byleth senses that he still does not want to discuss the matter. She presses the issue anyway.

“And ‘safe’ was away from here. Why would this place not be safe?”

Jeralt groans, hand moving to grip his brow, thumb and forefinger massaging his temples.

“It’s not that the monastery was unsafe… it was that… ugh,” he grumbles again. “There were things I did not understand.”

 _There are things I don’t understand either,_ she thinks _. Like why you had to die. Like why the goddess of a religion I never knew existed chose me. Like who my mother is._

“For the record, I did not choose you,” Sothis quips. Byleth frowns back at the goddess, who shrinks away into the corner of the room.

“What things, father?”

Jeralt steps forward and places a firm hand on Byleth’s shoulder. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him at a loss for words, and it makes her nervous. “It’s a long story, kiddo. I…” he looks over his shoulder for a moment. “I will tell you soon, but I have to go talk to Alois. The Knights probably have assignments for me now. Work that I gotta do.”

Byleth frowns at her father.

“I know you have a lot of questions. I promise we will talk soon. Just…” he lowers his voice. “Watch out for Lady Rhea. I don’t know what she’s thinking, making you a professor like this. She may be up to something. Stay on your guard.”

 _Like why you don’t trust Rhea,_ she thinks as her father walks away. _Like why you kept so many things from me my whole life._

Byleth turns on her heel and leaves the audience chamber. She doesn’t bother pretending she is unfamiliar with these halls, so she walks straight to Hanneman and Manuela’s offices as she was instructed. Monks and priests walking down the halls are looking at her curiously; she can feel their stares and hear their whispers.

_Like the things you keep from me, even now._

“He’s probably keeping things from you to protect you,” the green-haired goddess chimes in.

Byleth near scowls in irritation. Sothis says something else when she knocks on the open door courteously and turns the corner into Manuela’s office, but Byleth ignores her. Speaking with the other professors is largely a repeat of information she already knows too well, but her focus is unwavering in the conversation. She pays no attention to the small comments and interjections from the goddess until it seemed like she gave up on making them entirely.

  
  


* * *

Byleth can’t remember the last time there were this many options at the dining hall. The blonde sitting across the table from her has a literal smorgasboard of different offerings. Smoked meats, grilled vegetables and fish, pickled this and that, roasted poultry smothered in gravy… all of which he is tucking into excitedly. Even the simple fox skewers she had on her plate are too elaborate, compared to the paltry rations that she spent months eating during wartime.

“Y’know, they get those foxes from Gronder and then age the meat using magic or whatever? Caspar was telling me— his family’s from right next to Gronder,” her table companion tells her between bites. “He made ‘em sound so good… man, I would have loved to try them, but I couldn’t find room on my plates!”

Byleth can’t stop her mouth from curling into a smile as she takes a sip from her glass, in part due to his warm, booming laughter and also at the sight of his _four_ plates of food. _I’m glad some things never change._

“They are good,” she reports.

“All the food’s good, here!” he affirms, then tears a bite from a steak. “My name’s Raphael, by the way. I hear you’re a new professor here!”

She nods. “Nice to meet you, Raphael. And yes, I’ve been asked to teach this year.”

Another plate of food is sat down across the table from her. “Excuse me Raphael, Professor… can I join you?” Byleth looks up to sharp yet warm green eyes framed by golden hair.

“Of course, we were just discussing how delicious the food is here,” she says, motioning for the girl to take a seat.

“I absolutely agree,” the girl slides into the seat next to Raphael. “Ah, I should also introduce myself. My name is Ingrid. I’m from house Galatea of Faergus,” her hand folds to her chest, and she bows slightly as she explains.

“I apologize for eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help but hear that you said you are the newest professor at the Academy! What will you be teaching? Will you be leading a house?”

Byleth chuckles slightly at Ingrid’s enthusiasm. She grabs a forkful of vegetables, answering before taking a bite. “I’ll be teaching swordsmanship and tactics… they also told me I will be leading one of the houses, yes.”

Both Raphael and Ingrid’s eyes light up at the same time. “What house will you be leading? We’d love to have ya over in Golden Deer!” Raphael booms, hand hitting the table in his excitement. “Oh Raph, I’m sure any of the houses would be happy to have her,” Ingrid reasons, taking a bite from a leg of pheasant.

“I don’t know what house I’ll be leading yet,” Byleth responds plainly, hesitating to take another bite. It’s the truth—she hasn’t had much time to think about what house she would pick to lead this time. She decides to change the topic.

“Raphael was recommending these Gronder fox skewers… do you have a favorite dish that they serve here, Ingrid?”

She looks up in thought, chewing still. “I guess to be honest, much of the food here has become a favorite of mine. There’s so much to try… so many different flavors that I never would be able to enjoy back home,” she muses.

“Man, the pheasant has to be my favorite,” Raphael interjects. “Ain’t it good, Ingrid?” he asks, nudging his dining partner with his elbow. She closes her eyes happily with a mouthful of the dish, nodding in agreement. “They make it just as my mom did, with that berry sauce. It just reminds me of home, y’know?”

Ingrid reaches for her glass, “They don’t make anything like what I grew up eating… but then again, we couldn’t afford to smother our chicken with cheese at every opportunity like Sylvain’s family does.” She raises her eyebrows in mock surprise and sips her drink, earning a chuckle from Byleth.

“The cheesy chicken gratin? But that’s one of my favorites,” she hums to the students.

“Mine too! Professor, you just get it!” the red-head in question chimes in, sliding his plate and himself down next to Byleth.

“Ingrid, don’t worry, I won’t tell the new professor that you would sneak seconds and thirds of the gratin when we were kids,” he adds playfully. He yelps as Ingrid kicks him under the table. “Sylvain, by the way,” he adds, winking in Byleth’s direction.

“I never said it _doesn’t taste good_ , Sylvain,” Ingrid quips back. “Also, I am _not_ the only one who took second helpings—Dimitri always took seconds too… you know how he likes cheese. And, for the record, we did not _sneak_ anything. We always asked first. Which… did you even bother to ask if you could join us before rudely interrupting?” she chastises him.

Sylvain opens his mouth ready with a rebuttal, but Byleth quickly shushes both him and Ingrid. She glances over to Raphael who is silently laughing at the two childhood friends while polishing off his second plate of food. The four of them eat in silence for a few moments.

“You know Ingrid, remember that stew that your mom would make us when we would visit? I wish they served that here,” Sylvain reminisces.

Ingrid is mid-bite, so she can only nod her head in agreement. “Oh yes, I would eat it every day if they made it. _That_ reminds me of home.”

“What’s it made with?” Raphael asks. “I’m sure if ya ask, they can make it!”

“I bet you’ve actually had it before, Raph. It’s a recipe from Daphnel actually… it’s like a chicken stew with onions, potatoes… carrots?” she wonders aloud, raising a brow in Sylvain’s direction.

“Yep, there are carrots for sure,” he confirms.

“Oh, _yeah_! I’ve had that loads of times. My mom would make it, too.” Raphael and Ingrid reminisce about their shared childhood dish. Byleth works on one of her skewers, enjoying the students’ chit chat until an idea strikes her.

“Ingrid,” she interjects. “Raphael is right—if you have the recipe, I’m sure we could make it.”

“Oh, I can write home to my father and ask for the recipe!”

Byleth smiles— _truly_ smiles, teeth and all—for the first time since she pulsed back to this time. “Thank you, Ingrid. I would appreciate that very much.”

  
  
  


* * *

Byleth follows closely behind Hanneman and Manuela to the audience chamber. They are summoned so they can decide the charges for the three houses. The last few days had been like a blur... a dream, in all actuality. Pleasant, seeing everyone young and relatively content again—alive, too. She wishes these past days would exist forever; everyone was so full of hope and optimism, each student promising a future that was better than today.

Selecting a house would mean that Byleth’s new path in this time had undoubtedly begun. Her true mission would commence. She sets her jaw at the thought, and Manuela pushes open the heavy doors to the chamber. Rhea and Seteth are waiting for them, speaking with each other. Their conversation ends when the professors enter, Rhea’s eyes falling on Byleth.

“Byleth, how are you enjoying your time at the academy thus far?” she asks her, voice sweet and smile beaming. “I hope you have found our halls brimming with the vitality of well-intentioned souls.”

 _I’m more interested in your intentions_ , Byleth wants to say.

She offers a curt bow instead. “I feel… at home here. I’m looking forward to spending the year working with the students; they show great promise.”

Rhea smiles, visibly relieved at Byleth’s response. Seteth clears his throat, and Byleth clenches her jaw again, bracing herself. “Hm. I suppose it is time for you to take charge of one of our student houses. I must note that I am personally against entrusting someone as… lacking in trackable history as yourself with such a task, but—”

“Seteth, that is enough,” Rhea cuts him off.

Byleth’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Since she had pulsed back to this time, she had been preparing herself for the return to the distrust that Seteth had for her in the beginning. In the previous time, it had taken months of criticism and arguments, and risking hers and her students’ safety to rescue Flayn from the Death Knight to earn his respect… and even longer to earn his trust. She knows the advisor will again be a difficult ally to secure in this new time, but one she must make quickly.

Regardless, as anticipated, Seteth openly shares his wariness about her… but the swift response he gets from Rhea surprises him and Byleth both. _This… could get interesting._

“I understand that professors Hanneman and Manuela have explained to you what your duties as professor entail here at the academy,” Rhea continues.

“As Seteth mentioned, one of your duties as professor is to take charge of one of the three houses. The Black Eagles, the Blue Lions, and the Golden Deer… I trust you have become acquainted with each of them?”

Byleth gives the archbishop an affirmative nod.

“Wonderful. I believe Hanneman and Manuela will allow you to choose first?” she asks, looking to the other professors.

Hanneman clears his throat, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Yes, since you are new here, Manuela and I thought we should allow you first pick. We will take charge of the remaining two houses,” he explains.

“So, professor, which house will you choose?”

 _Which house?_ She thinks back to the last conversation she had with Ferdinand in the previous time. His words had stuck with her so much that afternoon, clinging to her being even now. Driving her.

  
  


_“I have been wondering something... If I had not been your student, where would I be right now? Who would I be? Do you ever think that sort of thing, Byleth?”_

  
  


She takes a deep breath at the memory. She wonders what Ferdinand would choose? Her most honest, most honorable ally… she wishes that he were here to help her make this choice. And Felix, too. She sighs, knowing her wish for the aid of her dearest advisors was futile, nothing more than a silly imagination… she wasn’t even guaranteed their aid and alliance in this life, a woeful thought.

 _Oh, if there were sympathy in such a choice…_ Byleth’s gaze slowly rises to meet the archbishop’s.

“I choose…” she begins, voice thin. “The Black Eagles.”

“What?! Why?” Sothis screeches. Byleth did not hear from the goddess for a few days now, so she had to hold back a flinch at her sudden emotional response.

“So, you have chosen the Black Eagles, led by Edelgard, correct?” Rhea inquires.

“No, you are NOT choosing the Black Eagles… have you gone _mad_?” For a moment, Byleth thinks she can actually feel Sothis’ blood boiling. Her agitation is palpable as she continues to scream at Byleth.

“Honestly! After everything?” she demands. Byleth says nothing, thinks nothing.

Sothis huffs, the tops of her cheeks and the tips of her ears actually red. Her small frame trembles in anger. “Go back.”

_No._

“Yes, I choose the Black Eagles,” Byleth confirms.

More screaming. “ _Absolutely_ not!” The goddess steps in front of Byleth, so that she would be forced to look upon her… standing between Byleth and Lady Rhea, Sothis looks as though she is going to try to reason with the young professor. But she is a goddess—she does not reason. She demands.

“Go back, Byleth.”

_No._

“GO. BACK.”

Sothis shouts at Byleth in desperation, but her demands fall on deaf ears. 

“Ah, your heart has made its choice, then,” Rhea says. “All I ask is that you guide these open minds with virtue, care, and sincerity.”

“Virtue? Sincerity? You picked the _wrong_ house for those things, Byleth. GO BACK. Now!”

_No._

She can hear the goddess begging her to turn back as Hanneman takes the Golden Deer, and Manuela the Blue Lions. Byleth looks to Seteth as he then speaks, ignoring Sothis’ tantrum on the floor of the audience chamber. “They are all promising youths who bear the weight of Fodlan’s future upon their shoulders. I hope you appreciate what an honor it is to lead them,” he states dryly.

“It is a great honor that I take seriously,” Byleth responds. “Thank you for the opportunity. I will not let you down,” she promises with a bow. Rhea smiles, pleased. If Seteth were allowed to make a disrespectful noise, Byleth is sure he would have grumbled. She turns around to walk out of the chamber.

Returning to her quarters, she hears Sothis sigh heavily as the door closes behind them. Byleth kicks off her boots and takes a seat on her bed, and the goddess drudges over to the corner of the room and crumples on the floor in resignation. “After everything…” Sothis breathes, her head resting on her elbow as she stares blankly at the floorboards.

“After _everything_ that has happened… after coming back here… you chose the same path...”

Byleth feels a twinge of guilt at the hint of accusation in Sothis’ voice… the disappointment and defeat in her voice.

“Why?” the goddess asks, so faintly Byleth couldn’t hear at first.

“Why did you do it, Byleth?”

“I…” she starts, afraid to continue and further upset Sothis. She had been worried since she had pulsed back in time if she would be able to find allies, or better yet, if she could earn the trust of the same ones from the previous time… But here she was, seriously questioning if she had lost her _greatest_ ally—Sothis.

“I chose the Black Eagles because I need to be close to Edelgard. I need her to trust me, that’s the only way I can try to get her to change,” she explains. Sothis doesn’t say anything for a long moment, leaving them both in an uncomfortable silence. She doesn’t move from her defeated position on the floor. Byleth eventually gets up and kneels down beside the goddess, and gently reaches out to touch her emerald hair.

“I’m sorry, Sothis. I—”

“You better keep her close,” the goddess says suddenly, almost causing Byleth to fall backwards. “Close enough to kill her if you have to.”

Byleth breathes in sharply.

“Which you will.”

  
  


* * *

The morning of the mock battle between the houses arrives, and Byleth feels prepared despite only a few days’ time to acquaint herself with her house. Then again, she has an unfair advantage over Hanneman and Manuela, as she is already very familiar with all of the students’ skills and preferences on the battlefield—even the ones not in the Black Eagles. She thinks back to the mock battle in the previous time, and remembers how nervous she was… afraid of disappointing her father or Rhea... afraid of Seteth in general. 

Now, the mock battle meant little to her. It meant nothing in the grand scheme of what was to come. But, it meant a lot to her students—it was all that any of them talked about all week. Well, sans Bernadetta and Lindhardt, who had been too busy hiding and sleeping respectively. So she welcomed the mock battle reluctantly, thinking of it as extra training and experience for her students... and perhaps a way to motivate them, as well.

The eight students surround her on the field before the mock battle, chatting happily with each other. Byleth clears her throat loudly and captures their attention. “OK, listen up. Today may be just a mock battle to them,” she says, pointing to the other houses on the opposite end of the field. “But it’s a test for you. Show me what you’re capable of. Looks like Lady Rhea and Seteth are watching, too.” The students look up, squinting against the sun to see them overlooking the field with some other church officials.

“Ferdinand and Hubert,” Byleth continues, the two tallest Black Eagles perking up at the sound of their names. “You two will join me at the front. We will push forward and engage the Blue Lions head on.” Ferdinand nods, enthusiastic. Hubert, however, is not enthused in the least. He huffs and shoots a look toward Edelgard.

“This is nonsense, I should be fighting alongside you,” he whispers to her.

“Do not worry, Hubert. Our professor is new. Let me correct this,” the princess whispers back. She raises her hand to halt Byleth from speaking, “Excuse me, Professor—”

“Lady Edelgard, is there a problem?” Byleth stares intensely back at her, trying to keep her tone even despite her irritation at their whispering.

“Not a problem, Professor. It is just that I usually fight alongside Hubert, and—”

“That may be, but the battlefield holds no space for comforts or convenience,” Byleth cuts her off. “You will be leading the left front, against the Golden Deer.”

Edelgard opens her mouth to protest again, but Byleth is quicker. “Do you doubt my strategy, your Highness?” Edelgard stands there dumbly for a fraction of a second, before her cool and composed aura returns.

“No, Professor,” she says, voice sharp.

Byleth nods. “I’m glad we are on the same page. Now then… Dorothea, can you heal?” she asks the brunette.

“Um,” she stutters, slightly flustered. “A little? I’ve only been practicing one spell for a few weeks…”

“That’s good enough for me,” Byleth assures her with a small smile. This seems to do nothing but confuse the songstress even more.

“I mean, I am far better at black magic than white magic, Professor. Why not have Lin out there?” she asks, fiddling nervously with the hem of her shirt. Lindhart, who was lost in thought before, perks up at the sound of his name. Caspar tries to stifle a laugh at his friend.

“I need someone who can be on the offensive as well as heal, Dorothea. Bring a training sword, too. I need you to be adaptable,” Byleth directs. She appears to wilt in front of her. _Perhaps that came off a little too strong?_ “Just show me what you got. It’s just a mock battle, just practice,” she tries again to reassure her. It seems to have worked, as she picks up a wooden training sword.

“Alright, Dorothea, you will cover Edelgard, but float close to us as well. In case anyone needs healing, I need you to be able to reach all of us.”

Pointing out to the field, where the other houses were taking their positions, Byleth continues: “Our goal is to clear all the other students, then meet in the middle, up the field. We can then draw out Hanneman and Manuela from the corners as we cover each other.”

The Black Eagles vocalize their agreement, moving out to take their positions. Byleth is happy with her decision to put herself with Ferdinand and Hubert, as their squabbling ceases the second she walks up to join them. “Hey, read your opponent,” she prompts the boys, pointing past them to the Blue Lions. Dedue and Felix lead the front for the Lions house, with Dimitri and Mercedes holding back, close to Manuela.

They both study their fellow students, but Hubert speaks first. “They will likely charge us. I’ll hold my ground and take Dedue,” he asserts. Ferdinand also speaks up, unable to be outdone, “Very well, Hubert. Then I shall fight Felix.”

Byleth hums in response. “Dedue is strong, but I’m sure magic will easily be able to stop him. Felix on the other hand,” she explains, studying her old friend from another life, “is quick. Keep that in mind, Ferdinand. Keep a distance, and let him move first so you can read him and react. I’ll cover you both.” She pats both their shoulders, as Hubert coughs and Ferdinand grips his wooden lance tighter.

A glance over to Edelgard and Dorothea on the Golden Deer front reveals that they’re matched up with Claude and Hilda who are hiding in the brush. Byleth anticipates Edelgard will charge forward and take Claude first, leaving Dorothea to be matched with Hilda. _A decent match-up,_ Byleth thinks.

But when her father calls for the mock battle to begin, a glance back to her left reveals that Claude was nowhere to be seen. Edelgard heads further into the brush in search of him, and ends up only running into Hilda. Surprisingly, Hilda is stronger than she appears, and parries each swing of Edelgard’s axe with her own. Dorothea sees this, too, and cautiously moves toward the patch of brush, preparing a spell.

Byleth has to stop paying attention to that front when she hears the wooden training weapons clatter ahead of her. Thankfully, Ferdinand is staving off Felix, despite his very apparent advantage in speed. Hubert was already moving ahead on the field toward Mercedes, having easily bested Dedue.

“Ah,” Ferdinand yelps, tripping over his own feet. Felix whacks him with his training sword, a little stronger than needed for a mock battle. “Hey!” Ferdinand barks back at the dark-haired swordsman. He stands up straight, clearly upset. “Was it necessary to hit me that hard?”

“You lost, now get off the field,” Felix snaps back. Ferdinand walks off indignantly with a huff.

The swordsman’s focus turns to Byleth, and he readies his blade again. “Professor, I’ve been looking forward to seeing you in action,” he declares, attacking her quickly. She easily parries his blade, hardly moving. _He really is overly aggressive_ , she notes.

“Well of course! He walked around with a chip on his shoulder for the longest time. Have you really forgotten?” Sothis laughs.

Byleth chuckles in response, but Felix, unable to see the goddess, thinks she is laughing at _him_ . This perceived taunt irks him, and he throws his full weight behind his swing again and again, yet he fails to land the tip of his wooden blade anywhere near her. He shuffles his training weapon to his other hand, ready to swing again at her, but is stopped. He inadvertently moved straight into her training blade as it jabbed his right side. _I walked right into it,_ he mentally berates himself. _How did I not see it?_

“You always leave your right side open,” Byleth tells him, answering the thought he had. “Work on that,” she advises him as he walks off the field, fists clenching. “He’s always been a little bit of a sore loser,” Sothis chimes in again, watching the Fraldarius heir pout on the edge of the field, joining Dedue and Mercedes. Ferdinand shoots Felix a smug look as he joins the group of eliminated students.

 _He’ll learn_ , Byleth thinks back. _He’ll mellow out, remember?_

“Three Blue Lions down, professor.” Hubert’s voice makes her jump, shocking her. She turns around quickly, and he’s right there, towering over her. A smirk finds its way onto his face, bangs covering his one eye. “Did I frighten you?” he inquires, voice chiding her.

“Hardly, von Vestra. Just sneak up on your opponents and enemies next time, not me,” Byleth responds as cooly as she can, regaining her composure and her grip on her training sword. She hears the goddess snickering behind her.

“Shall we?” he asks her, outstretching his hand like a gentleman and motioning to the lone Blue Lion student remaining at the far end of the field. A cry interrupts Byleth’s response, as her and the Hubert’s attention are immediately brought to Dorothea and Edelgard...

...And the fact that Claude had reappeared, and was quickly surrounding her two students with Lysithea and Lorenz. Hubert and Byleth abandon their plan to go after the Blue Lions, and race over to help their housemates.

Claude releases a few arrows at them as they approach, but Hubert’s dark magic dissolves them before they could fly close. The wood of Byleth’s training sword begins to leave splinters in her palm. Her heels dig into the dirt, falling back on her elbow as she avoids running right into a spell from Lysithea. “Shit,” she mutters to herself as the small mage prepares another spell. _Never thought I’d be on the receiving end of a Dark Spikes T._

Her thought is interrupted as Edelgard springs up from behind Lysithea, tapping her with the wooden blade of her axe. The spell fizzles out in her hands as she hangs her head in defeat, much to Byleth’s relief. As she gets back on her feet, she sees Hubert knock the training lance out of Lorenz’s hands with a Mire B spell. It wasn’t a square hit on the proud Alliance noble, though. But instead of casting another spell, Hubert grabs the lance from the dirt, pivoting and landing a tap on Lorenz to eliminate him from the field.

Byleth gives him a pat on the shoulder as she rejoins him and Edelgard. “Nice work,” she nods to him. He clears his throat.

“I’ll go check on Dorothea,” he announces. The mage jogs over to the songstress who is crumpled in the brush. She points at her ankle, wincing in pain as her mouth moves, explaining what happened. Hubert places one hand gently on her back, and casts a glowing Heal spell over her injured ankle.

Byleth quickly redirects her attention to Edelgard. They look around for Claude, and notice that he’s moving up-field, headed toward Dimitri. “It’s just us and them, my teacher,” Edelgard observes, her gloved hand tightening on the handle of her axe.

“Right. Let’s advance. You go after Claude; I will take Dimitri,” Byleth directs. “Then we will be back to our original strategy—let Manuela and Hanneman come to us.”

The Black Eagles’ house leader doesn’t say anything in response, but moves swiftly, a few footsteps behind Byleth. As they approach the other two lords, Byleth moves toward Dimitri and sees the golden-haired prince raise his lance to strike. She had sparred with Dimitri dozens of times in the previous time; she knew what to expect. Lunging to the right, she avoids the jab of his lance, and pivots back around to ready the swing of her sword.

Much to her surprise, upon spinning around, Dimitri had his weapon crossed with Edelgard’s. The princess throws off Dimitri’s lance with a huff, rushing back in to strike again. “Dimitri... It's time! We can finally settle the question of who's stronger,” Edelgard challenges.

Byleth shouts after her.

Only a few meters behind the two lords locked in battle, Byleth sees Claude drawing an arrow at them. The splinters tear at her palm again, as she rushes toward the fray.

“Edelgard, look out!” Byleth shouts again.

“Don’t worry, my teacher,” Edelgard huffs between swings of her axe, “I can handle this.” Hers and Dimitri’s feet kick up dirt around them as they struggle to gain the upperhand on each other. Irritation flares inside Byleth, as one of Claude’s arrows narrowly misses the white-haired princess. _She didn’t even notice!_

“Not to mention she’s not even listening to you,” Sothis adds with a roll of her eyes.

Byleth grunts, and rushes in to the fray, shoving Edelgard out of the way of two more of Claude’s arrows. Edelgard’s face scowls in anger toward her professor. “I said I could handle—”

“And I said to go after Claude,” Byleth practically hisses back, parrying a blow from Dimitri. Edelgard huffs and finally runs off to stop Claude from raining arrows on them all.

“Ah, a much better match-up, don’t you think, professor?” Dimitri says, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. For a few moments, Byelth forgets her irritation and enjoys the competition with the Faergus prince. It doesn’t even feel like a mock battle; it just felt like sparring, just like old times. But, like the old times, she bests him. With a sigh, he outstretches his hand to shake hers.

“Well fought, professor,” he concedes, grinning despite his defeat. She feels their hands linger together for a half-second too long. “Can’t wait to spar with you,” he adds, before he jogs off the field to join the rest of the fallen students. Hubert was helping Dorothea over to the edge of the field, and Claude wasn’t far behind them.

Edelgard and Byleth cover each other as they eliminate the other professors with ease. “We did it, my teacher,” Edelgard says, a hint of excitement in her voice. She looks up at Byleth, a smile on her face. But Byleth gazes down on the house leader with a tired, disappointed expression. The smile on Edelgard’s face falters, retreating behind her emotionless mask once again.

“And the winner of this mock battle is… the Black Eagles!” Jeralt’s voice booms over the field.

The rest of the Black Eagles rush over to join Edelgard and their professor, cheering excitedly. Hubert and Dorothea don’t run, him aiding her as she gingerly walks on her injured ankle... but they join, too, nonetheless, not far behind their housemates. 

“Even though it was just a mock battle, we defeated both houses masterfully,” Edelgard declares. “Take pride in this victory, everyone!” The students cheer in response, and Byleth walks over to Hubert and Dorothea, who is leaning against the tall mage for support.

Byleth asks her about her ankle, and the brunette assures her that she’s alright. “Thank the goddess for Hubie! I never knew you could be such a gentleman,” she quips, giving him a playful nudge. He grimaces in response.

“I never knew you knew you could heal,” Byleth murmurs under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

He presses his lips together firmly and peers down at her under the dark fringe of his hair. “I’ll do anything for my friends, Professor.”

* * *

It is a welcomed sunny day at Garreg Mach; it had been perpetually cloudy and rainy for the last few weeks. But the dreary early-spring weather seems to have finally dissipated. Everyone in the monastery was outside enjoying the warm sun today… students sprawled out on blankets to study in the courtyard, the doors of the cathedral open wide to let in a fresh breeze, and joyous music from travelling musicians in the marketplace. On her way to the greenhouse, Byleth can’t help but laugh to herself as she sees Alois drag her father to fish with him at pond.

The sunlight filters in through the glass roof of the greenhouse, casting a crisscross of shadows on the ground. Byleth spots a head of messy purple hair as the doors of the greenhouse swing shut behind her.

“Hi, Bernadetta,” Byleth greets gently, knowing that she can be jumpy.

“P-professor! What are you doing here?” her hands are shaking that the watering can clatters against the metal buttons of her uniform jacket.

“Are you on greenhouse duty this week?” 

“No, but Hilda isn’t feeling well so she asked me to cover for her,” Bernadetta explains.

“Hmm,” Byleth responds, frowning and placing her hands on her hips. She can’t forget that she saw Hilda and Dorothea lounging out in the courtyard on the way here. _Not feeling well enough, huh..._

“It’s n-nothing!” Bernadetta reasurres her professor, no doubtedly seeing the unease on her face. “I enjoy gardening! So I am happy to help!”

With a sigh, Byleth lets her hands drop from her hips, forgetting about Hilda shirking her duties for the time being. “Can I help you?” she offers.

“You don’t have to, Professor… I don’t want to be a bother.” Bernadetta turns away from the professor, returning to tending a bed of daffodils and chamomile.

“You’re no bother, Bernadetta,” Byleth says, sitting down on the stone wall of the garden bed, looking at the shy student. “I came down here to see if we have potatoes and carrots ready to harvest. But, please, allow me to stick around to help.”

The violet-haired girl looks anxious, preening weeds and ill-looking leaves from the flowers before her. “O-Okay…” she finally says. She takes a deep breath and settles herself. “I think there are some potatoes ready to pull up over here.”

Bernadetta points to another garden bed toward the rear of the greenhouse. She and Byleth wander over, and Bernadetta reaches into the mulch tentatively feeling around in the soil. Her grey eyes light up. “Aha!” she exclaims, her small hand pulling out a dirt-covered tuber from the garden bed.

Byleth smiles and laughs. She joins in rooting around in the soil. Between the two of them, they retrieve a heaping pile of potatoes from the garden bed. “Not bad for a spring harvest,” Bernadetta comments.

“Do you think we’ll have any carrots?” Byleth asks, dusting her hands together to rid them of some of the dirt caked onto them. Her student hums, doubtful. “We can check,” she replies, moving a few feet down the garden bed.

She grabs ahold of one of the carrot tops and pulls up gently, revealing a small carrot. She hums again, her face frowning at the sight. “They are a little small yet…”

“They’ll do, no need to worry. I’ll just need a few extra,” Byleth assures her with a smile. Bernadetta nods, and the two of them pick a pile of modest-sized carrots. They load their harvest into a basket, and move onto weeding and watering the rest of the garden beds.

“Hey, Bernadetta…” Byleth starts, realizing Bernadetta wasn’t saying much of anything as they worked. “I don’t see you a lot outside of your room. Is everything OK?” Her student visibly tensed. _Perhaps I shouldn’t have pushed…_

“I-I don’t like to leave my room,” Bernadetta squeaks. “Nothing is wrong, please don’t worry about me, Professor. I… I just like it better in my room.”

“You’re here now?”

“There aren’t people here I have to talk to,” she responds quickly.

“Well, I’m here, and you’re talking to me,” Byleth counters, as gently as she can.

Bernadetta takes a deep breath, steadying her shaking hands again. “But you’re different. You’re very patient with me. And kind,” she adds quietly. Her forehead scrunches up, and she turns away from the professor to water another patch of flowers.

“Thank you, Bernadetta,” Byleth says, her tone soft. “I think if you got to know some of the other people here at the Academy, you’d be surprised to find they are also patient and kind.”

Her student gives a nervous nod.

“T-thanks for not putting me out there in the mock battle,” she murmurs.

It’s Byleth’s turn to sigh. “You will have to participate in our next battle, though,” she tells her regretfully. Bernadetta lets out a strangled yelp, nearly dropping the watering can in her trembling hands. Byleth immediately backtracks. “Don’t worry, I will help you.”

Bernadetta gives Byleth a look that’s a cross between terror and disbelief. “Huh?”

“I think you are very talented, Bernadetta. I won’t bring you out into battle until you feel ready.”

Her grey eyes are wide, and Byleth thinks she sees tears that are ready to spill. “What if I never feel ready?” Bernadetta whimpers. Byleth gently places her hands on Bernadetta’s trembling ones clutching the watering can, steadying them.

“You will,” she assures her student. “Just like these plants need time and your gentle hand to nurture them to grow,” she continues, gesturing to the garden around them that Bernadetta lovingly tends to, “it will take time and work for you to grow, too.”

  
  


* * *

The bell-tower rings across the monastery, signalling the beginning of Byleth's first swordsmanship class. Well, not the _first_ , but her first time teaching swords in this time. She smiles ruefully at a particularly vivid memory of Caspar getting knocked clear backwards across the training grounds by Petra in one of her classes. Yet as the students trickle into today’s class, she notes the Brigid princess is not among them, and neither is Caspar. A few of the other Black Eagles students do arrive: Edelgard, Hubert, ever looming not far behind her, and Dorothea. Byleth is glad that Dorothea was able to attend; she knew from the previous time that the songstress was surprisingly adept with a sword, so after the mock battle a few days ago, she made a point of encouraging her to attend her swords class. 

No more students seemed to find their way into the training grounds, so Byleth takes this as a cue to start her lecture. She grabs a training sword from the weapons rack, and moves to the front of the chattering group of students. She notices Lorenz from the Golden Deer, who appears to have dragged the painfully reserved Marianne with him to the training grounds, perhaps against her will. He’s prattling on about himself to her, the timbre of his voice carrying over all the others. Her hands are folded to her chest, her eyes twisted shut—she looks as though she’s praying for the goddess to warp her out of the training grounds as quickly as possible.

Felix and Sylvain are also in attendance, she notices. She can’t figure out why Sylvain would be here… aside from a prime opportunity to push Felix’s buttons. Which, inevitably is exactly what he’s doing. Dimitri stands awkwardly between the two of them as the tall redhead teases Felix about his defeat in the mock battle. Felix was practically bearing teeth at his friend, clearly agitated at the topic. It appears Dimitri has given up on trying to steer the conversation in a different direction, and instead he relegates himself to quite literally inserting himself between the two bickering friends. Byleth catches the prince’s eye and gives him a sympathetic look.

“Welcome everyone,” Byleth shouts over the chit chat, gaining the students’ attention. “Obviously, in this class I’m going to train you on the fundamentals of the sword. My father always told me that there is one objective in a battle: to deliver a fight-ending blow to your opponent without taking one yourself.”

She scans the faces of the group of students, all of them quiet and paying attention now. “That objective applies to any battle with any weapon,” Byleth adds, looking directly at Lorenz and Sylvain in particular, as she knows better that they’d never wield anything other than a lance in battle, “but this class will help you understand how to handle a blade cut down your enemy, or how to survive against a swordsman.”

“There are several different techniques that we will work on over the coming weeks, but today, we will begin with practicing awareness.” She sees Felix roll his eyes out of the corner of her eye.

“Awareness is two-fold: awareness of your opponent is something that I know the Black Eagles have heard me talk about already,” she says, nodding in their direction. “Always be reading your opponent. Observe their patterns and tendencies; anticipate their next move. But it is even more important to be self-aware.”

A hand shoots up. It’s Edelgard. “Question?”

“Yes, Professor,” she begins cooly. “Why wouldn’t evaluating your opponent be more important? Finding their weakness to defeat them is the goal, isn’t it?”

“Excellent question, Edelgard. That is the one objective in battle, correct? To deliver a fight-ending blow to your opponent?”

The Imperial princess nods, and a few of the other students murmur in agreement.

“Self-awareness… understanding your strengths and weaknesses, knowing how your body is positioned in relation to your opponent, in relation to your environment and the battle around you… all of those things help keep you alive,” Byleth explains. “Remember, the other part of the objective is to win _without_ taking a fatal blow yourself. Self-awareness is self-preservation. You need to be alive to best your opponent.”

Byleth looks to Edelgard, and her expression is flat. Her lavender eyes are sharp and seem to glint in the afternoon sun, evaluating her as always. Byleth waits a beat to see if Edelgard will contest the answer, but her silence seems to indicate satisfaction with Byleth’s response. She decides to proceed with her lesson.

“To practice our self-awareness, we will spar with partners,” Byleth says. Some chatter breaks out amongst the students, and she speaks louder as she continues her instructions. “Afterwards, your partner will analyze your strengths and weaknesses. Then, we will spar again, practicing mindfulness of your partner’s observations.” 

Byleth turns on her heel and paces to the weapons rack, grabbing a second training blade. “I’ll briefly demonstrate what I mean. I need a volunteer.”

Dimitri raises his hand immediately, along with Lorenz. Felix does, too, but he’s too far in the back and too short for Byleth to see him at first. Sylvain, though, shoves his friend forward in the group. The commotion draws Byleth’s attention immediately.

“OK, Felix,” she says, handing him one of the training swords. He shoots a glare back at Sylvain before stepping forward before the class.

“We will be evaluating each other as we spar,” she explains, motioning to her and Felix. “But I want all of you to take inventory of our strengths and weaknesses as well. This will be an easy exercise for you, since you won’t be fighting.”

The group of students shake their heads in agreement, quieting when her and Felix begin to spar. Their bout is intense, as their sparring usually is, but it only lasts a minute at most. Byleth did intend it to be a quick demonstration, but she didn’t intend on it being this easy to steal a victory from her partner. Byleth easily taps her training blade into Felix’s right side, much to his chagrin. She feels a pulse of disappointment as well. The rest of the students cheer at the spectacle, however, as Byleth and Felix brush themselves off.

“So, I hope you all were paying attention,” Byleth says, refocusing the students on the lesson. “Felix, what did you observe about me as we sparred?” she asks him, extending her free hand to invite his critique.

“You keep your distance out of the range of my blade, which forces me to approach you to strike,” he remarks, his voice holding the same intensity as his sword fighting. The other students nod and murmur their agreement. “But when you hold your sword in your left hand, your swings are weaker.”

“Very good,” Byleth says with a bow of her head. “The weakness of my non-dominant hand would be a great opportunity for my opponent.”

“As for you, Felix,” she continues. “You spar with a lot of energy. Your speed and stamina are excellent; compliments to you and your diligent training.” He offers a slight grimace that she interprets as a thank you. “Your weakness is that you always leave your right side open, making it an easy victory for your opponent once they can match your speed.” _Which I have been able to do_ both _times we’ve sparred so far, because you literally make no effort to cover your right side,_ Byleth thinks to herself. 

“Practicing self-awareness would mean that I would focus on improving the strength of my non-dominant hand… or not using that hand at all in battle. For Felix, it would be focusing on defending his right side,” she says, trying to keep her tone as flat as possible at the last bit. “Any questions?”

The students all shake their heads.

“Alright then, everyone pair up, now. We’ll begin the exercise.”

Sylvain gives Felix a huge pat on the back that looked more like a shove. Lorenz asks Dimitri if they could be sparring partners, to which the prince agrees. It was then that Byleth noticed Marianne’s absence. _Poor thing, she was probably scared off…_

Dorothea and Edelgard were chatting happily as they walked over to the weapons rack to find training swords, leaving Hubert behind. He stood, like he does, hands clasped behind his back, intently observing those around him behind the fringe of black hair that covered his right eye.

“Hubert, do you need a partner?” Byleth asks, walking over to join him at the edge of the training grounds.

“I was not planning on participating,” he says with a curt bow. “I’m not much of a swordsman. Only here to observe and accompany Lady Edelgard.”

“Nonsense. You don’t have to be a practiced swordsman to benefit from this.” She offers her training sword to him. “Here, go pair up with Sylvain.”

He gives her a bemused look. “I’d rather not.”

She throws a glance over her shoulder at Sylvain pestering Felix again. The redhead looked to be dramatically reenacting the spar between her and Felix, as he clutched his side in mock pain while howling in laughter at his friend. Byleth sighs in resignation. “OK, I’ll go spar with Sylvain, and you can pair up with Felix,” she offers.

When looking back at Hubert, her eyes flicker just over his shoulder, the slightest movement behind him capturing her attention. Byleth sees a figure by the doors of the training grounds, obscured by the shadows cast from the afternoon sun. The figure leans up against the wall, regarding Byleth’s class from afar. Ash blonde hair swept up in a crimson bow, and an unmistakable white mask obscuring his face.

_Jertiza._

“That seems feasible,” Hubert agrees, his voice snapping Byleth’s focus back to her lesson. She can only offer a nod, words eluding her at the moment. Hubert heads over to the two Blue Lions, explaining to them their new sparring partner assignments. Sylvain looks enthused, but Felix grumbles something under his breath as he shoots an icy glare over in Byleth’s direction.

  
  


* * *

Ever since Rhea cut him off in their last meeting, Seteth has been unbearable. 

He is grouchy to everyone (even raising his voice at Hanneman enough for it to echo down the _entire_ length of the hallway to the _library_ , for goddess’ sake), but especially toward Byleth. He never answers her questions in faculty meetings. He sends her on missions with no briefing whatsoever, and though they are relatively harmless, it’s irritating nonetheless. He openly scoffs at her when they cross paths in the dining hall, in the courtyard, or in the cathedral, even.

Seteth did these same things in the previous time, so Byleth thinks nothing of them. _It’s not that bad_ , she tells herself. _It’s not like it’s worse than before_.

Over lunch one day, she asks Manuela how she finds time to write out her daily reports. 

“Daily reports?” she asks back, confused.

“The reports for Seteth,” Byleth explains to her. The daily reports on the coursework, curriculum, and students’ progress. Between classes, missions, grading papers, and assisting the students with sparring and other monastery duties… Byleth was only managing 5 hours of sleep a night at best. Manuela nearly choked on her sandwich laughing at her, saying that she’d never had Seteth ask her to provide him daily reports—or even _weekly_ reports—in all her years of teaching at Garreg Mach.

It was in that moment that Byleth really knew that it really was bad.

“Oh, sweetie... Good luck with that,” Manuela tells her, giggling as she stands up from the table and playfully pats Byleth’s shoulder.

It was also in that moment that Byleth realized she had her work cut out for her this time around.

Seteth, despite being wary of her when they first met, was an invaluable resource to her in the previous time. He was there for her after she awoke from her long sleep. He helped her organize and lead an entire resistance army. He provided professional council as her advisor, yet promised her to help learn the truth of her birth. He tried to get answers from Rhea, and divulged information about the Church to Byleth, despite the risks.

And in this time, Byleth needs more of that information. She can’t let his knowledge slip away from her.

She also can’t prevent a war if he’s punishing her with these daily reports. Which is why Byleth finds herself marching over to his office.

“You’re right—he likely knows far more than he’s ever disclosed to you before,” Sothis agrees. “It would be wise to ally with him as soon as possible.” The goddess is practically jogging to keep up with Byleth’s stride as she turns the corner down the hall.

“That being said, he’s already suspicious of you, Byleth. Don’t give him more reason to be. He would be a great ally, but a terrible enemy,” Sothis warns her.

They reach their destination, but the door is closed. Byleth hears muffled speaking behind it. A pulse of irritation runs through her, but before she can turn on her heel and leave, a small hand grabs a fistful of her coat, keeping her firmly in place before Seteth’s office door.

“He’s talking to someone… it sounds like Rhea!” Sothis whispers, despite no one being able to hear her but Byleth. “Get closer so we can listen!”

 _Didn’t you_ just _tell me not to make an enemy of him? Doesn’t this make me suspicious… eavesdropping outside his door for everyone to see?_

Sothis rolls her eyes then runs to the edge of the hallway, looking both ways for someone approaching. “The coast is clear, Byleth; the hall is empty. We’re the only ones here. Now _shush,_ and listen in,” she points at Byleth, rushing back to her side to listen as well.

“Have you no intention of changing your mind, Rhea? Appointing a stranger–a child no less!–as a professor at our esteemed academy is–”

“I have made my decision, Seteth. I know worrying comes naturally to you, but there is truly no need. That _stranger_ is Jeralt’s flesh and blood, after all.”

“She really does have a thing for your father, doesn’t she?” Sothis whispers, nudging Byleth’s side.

“I can’t say that’s all too comforting. How trustworthy is this _Jeralt_ character? Is he not the man who went missing after the great fire 21 years ago? I would remind you that Flayn is now here with us as well. I beg of you…please consider whether this is an unnecessary risk,” they hear Seteth plead to the archbishop.

“Wow, and he does _not_. Seems like your father certainly is a polarizing character,” Sothis whispers again.

_A fire… I remember reading that in his journal before…_

“Something you’ll have to ask him about, eventually,” the goddess replies.

“Seteth,” the archbishop’s tone is stern. “She has my trust. Let that be enough for you as well. More importantly, I have received a report from Shamir. I am increasingly concerned about a matter regarding our suspicious individual. We cannot ignore those who harbor ill will towards the church, especially if they are frequenting Garreg Mach.”

“Suspicious individual? Who, the Flame Emperor? The Death Knight?” Sothis wonders aloud.

_They know something… Did they know all along?_

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Byleth. We don’t know who their suspicious person is.” Byleth nods, but still feels unease in the pit of her stomach. They both continue listening.

“Yes, that matter is of great importance as well. I shall continue my investigation. Rhea… For now, I will have faith that you are placing your trust with the utmost care. I pray that nothing occurs to shake that confidence.”

“Are you the new professor?”

A shock of green hair nearly causes Byleth to topple forward and crash face first into Seteth’s office door. _Flayn._

Byleth sucks some air back into her lungs as she tries to steady herself. She gives the girl a nod as she makes some distance between herself and the door, brushing herself off.

“My brother has told me about you!” Flayn claps her hands together in excitement.

“Good things, I hope…” Byleth murmurs.

“Oh, he can be a little prickly at times, but do not mind him,” the girl reassures her, giving Byleth’s arm a comforting touch. “I am Flayn, his little sister!”

“Nice to meet you, Flayn.”

“Did you need to speak with my brother?” she asks innocently.

“Yes, but it looks like he’s busy talking to someone, so I’m… waiting,” Byleth says, hoping that Flayn could just forget about the part where she saw her ear pressed to Seteth’s door.

“Oh, no matter. Let me aid you!” Flayn smooths her skirt, then reaches up to knock on the door. “Brother!” she calls out, her voice ringing. The door swings open quickly, nearly hitting Byleth in the process.

Seteth stands in the door, looking alarmed. “Flayn! What is the matter?” Byleth uses every ounce of her being not to laugh at how frazzled and worried he looks. She quickly forgets the humor in the situation when the archbishop walks past Seteth and into the hallway.

“Oh, hello, Byleth! What a pleasant surprise, seeing you!” Rhea smiles down at her, the corners of her eyes crinkling softly. Byleth manages to smile back at her as she moves to make way for the archbishop.

“Have a wonderful day, my child,” Rhea says sweetly. Byleth catches the slightest fragrance of lilies as she walks past her.

“The new professor is here to speak with you!” Flayn tells Seteth, pointing over to Byleth. She could feel the energy in the hallway shift.

“Ah,” Seteth says shortly. “Flayn, if you could excuse us.” The advisor motions for Byleth to enter his office as Flayn merrily heads on her way. Byleth steps into his office tentatively, deciding to stand rather than sit. The door clicks behind her, and Seteth walks around her to stand behind his desk. He also decides to remain standing, arms folded over his chest.

“What do you need?”

“I wanted to discuss the other day,” Byleth begins. Despite feeling uneasy when she first stepped into his office, confidence now flooded her veins. She cuts right to the heart of the matter. “I sense your distrust in me. But, I understand why you are... unhappy with me, Seteth. You don’t know anything about me.”

She looks him dead in the eye as she speaks, and it appears to catch him off-guard. He hesitates before opening his mouth to speak.

“I am not unhappy with you,” Seteth replies carefully. “Rhea told me to trust you as she does.”

“Why does she trust me? I don’t know much about her…” Byleth counters.

“She and your father have worked together in the past. Certainly Jeralt has spoken to you about his time as one of the Knights of Sieros?”

“He has not. Before coming here, I didn’t even know he was in the Knights,” Byleth reveals to him. Then, she hesitates. Alright, here goes nothing.

“I…” she intentionally pauses again, doing her best to look troubled. “I want to know… more about the Knights and the Church, I mean. I want to prove myself worthy of Rhea’s trust, and earn yours, too, Seteth.”

Part of her feels bad that she is goading Seteth this way, but Byleth needs his cooperation. She really does care about the advisor… and even if she needs his alliance and information, their friendship is also important to her. Annoying as he may be now, he still is the same man who spilled blood for her in battle and comforted her during her darkest times.

“There’s just so much I don’t know, and I don’t know enough people at the monastery to know who to ask… who to learn from…”

“You can ask me,” he interjects, then clears his throat.

“What I mean is, you seem dedicated to your students, from what I have seen. You have proven yourself an effective mentor to them in the mock battle. And, since you seem eager to learn, I will teach you what you need to know.”

Byleth audibly sighs in relief.

“Thank you, Seteth. That means a lot coming from you,” Byleth is sincere when she thanks him. “I appreciate your guidance,” she adds after a beat, making sure to butter him up. Just a little bit. Sothis makes puking sounds behind her.

He gives her a cross between a grimace and a smile, which for not being a full smile is still a vast improvement on just a grimace. And a hell of a lot better than the scowls he’s been throwing her way for the past several days. He walks across the room to his wall of bookcases, and runs his fingers along the leather bindings, plucking a few tomes from the shelves.

“Here’s a few texts that are a good starting point to learn more about the Church,” Seteth explains, placing the stack of books in her arms. “Of course, let me know if you have any questions. Meet back with me when you’ve finished reading.”

Byleth nods, thanking him again before turning to leave. She lugs the heavy, musty stack of books back to her quarters, Sothis laughing at her the entire way.

  
  


* * *

“Gosh, you’re _such_ a doll!” Hilda exclaims. “I’m just _so_ busy with studying, you know? I don’t even _know_ what I’d do if I had to make a trip into town today…” She shoves the shopping list for the kitchen into Caspar’s hands, giving them a little pat.

“Thanks, Caspar!” she sings as she skips away, her pink hair swinging behind her.

“She didn’t even bother to thank me…” groans Ashe, who also agreed to help Hilda with this week’s supply run. He sighs dejectedly.

“It’s OK pal, I’ll give you all the credit. Plus, we can look at gettin’ you a new bow while we’re out! What do ya say?” Caspar assures his friend, giving him a firm pat on the back… perhaps a little _too_ firm, as the Blue Lion archer nearly stumbles forward and lands face-first on the cobblestone.

“Oh, I guess that’s sounds alright,” he acquiesces. The sound of heeled boots causes him to look up to the sight of an unmistakable shock of teal hair headed right towards them. “Oh, P-professor!” He waves at her nervously, wondering why she would be seeking them out on a Sunday of all days.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Byleth says, “but I heard you’re going to the market. Can I come with you?”

“Sorry, Professor. It’s a _guys only_ trip,” Caspar declares, throwing an arm around Ashe’s shoulders dramatically to prove a point.

This earns him a frown from Byleth.

“Ah-haha, just kidding…” he quickly tries to play it off as a joke, unnerved by how serious the Professor was. “Of _course_ you can come with us! Gonna look at a new blade?”

Byleth frowns again. “No… you two _are_ going on a supply run for the kitchen, aren’t you?” she asks the boys, confused.

“Y-yes! We’re covering for Hilda,” Ashe pipes up, trying to reassure the professor that Caspar would _not_ be dawdling around on their supply run and spending more time at the armory than the grocer.

“OK,” Byleth answers, frowning again, but not at them. _Does Hilda shirk_ all _her duties? Tch._ “I just need to pick up chicken. For the kitchen.”

“Huh, that’s not on our list, Professor,” Caspar remarks loudly, unfolding the list to give it a closer read.

“It’s just to make sure we have enough for a new dish they’ll be serving,” Byleth says, also a little too loud. “It probably didn’t get added to list, that’s all.” She hopes Caspar will drop it so they can all just go to the market and get back before nightfall.

“Oo, that sounds exciting!” Ashe exclaims. Byleth mentally thanks the boy for redirecting the conversation as the three of them start to walk to the marketplace. “Professor, I know one of the butchers in town. He’ll be able to get you the best deal.”

  
  


* * *

“I remember this being a peaceful place… Ah, I’ve probably said that to you before a few times,” Sothis chuckles. “But even after all the time we’ve spent together, I still can’t seem to remember anything about this place… Quite curious…”

_We’ll find out more once we’re back at the monastery, Sothis._

“Right, right,” the goddess sighs. “Time to lead your students into their first battle… in this time, anyway!”

Byleth splits the Black Eagles into two squads. She tells Ferdinand to take the lead of the first group, much to the ire of Hubert. “Aha, Professor! I will not let you down. These ruffians are no match for a noble like me!” he tells her proudly. Caspar, Petra, Dorothea, and Linhardt follow him as he advances the group north.

The rest of the Eagles take a back road west. Byleth wanted to keep a close eye on Edelgard and Hubert, that’s for certain. But she also had a promise to keep.

“Bernadetta, I’ll cover you. Don’t worry,” she tells the timid archer.

Since the day in the greenhouse, Bernadetta has been progressively more open to training with Byleth. She is still shy and skittish, but with daily archery practice in the fields, her aim has drastically improved. Byleth hoped that enough practice and familiarity with her bow would help give her a boost of confidence to walk out onto the battlefield to gain _real_ experience. Alas, there is no substitute for real experience. Killing, unfortunately, gets easier for most the more one does it. _Bernadetta is no exception_ , Byleth thinks as she remembers the archer rather fearlessly notching arrow after arrow at Imperial wyverns during the Battle for Garreg Mach.

In the present moment, Bernadetta whimpers as the bandit on the receiving end of her shot crumples to the ground, staining it with crimson. Byleth ushers her along as they proceed to take on a trio of bandits ahead.

Hubert and Edelgard, on the other hand, have no hesitation in the battle. Byleth noticed back in the previous time, but it’s irritatingly obvious to her in this one. The princess sinks her axe into the chest of one of the bandits, using her foot to help her pull her weapon from the corpse. _How many lives did I take in battle before I stopped blinking?_ Byleth wonders, the thought fleeting.

Bernadetta releases an arrow at a swordsman several yards ahead of the group, but it misses. This flusters her, hands shaking as she pulls another arrow from her quiver. The bandit charges her before she can notch another arrow, and she yelps. Byleth hears it and looks over. _Shit._

She and Edelgard are too preoccupied with fending off a pair of bandits, and it’s too much of a distance to reach the archer in time. Byleth’s eyes widen at the sight which seems to play out before her in slow motion. There’s nothing she can yell at Bernadetta, as she has no other weapon on her. The bandit raises his sword, closing the distance between him and the archer. Even if Bernadetta were to notch her arrow, he would reach her by the time she could release it at him.

Byleth conjures a fire spell in her hand, and hurls it at the bandit. It hits him solidly, bringing him to his knees. The smell of burning hair and flesh fills the air, and Bernadetta is able to land her shot to finish him off. She scampers over to Byleth and Edelgard, who have cleared the rest of the bandits on the west side of the canyon.

“T-thanks, Professor,” she squeaks.

Edelgard looks over her shoulder at Byleth as Hubert calls them all ahead to meet up with the rest of the Black Eagles ahead.

While Ferdinand and Petra, and Caspar and Dorothea, each pair up to handle the last two bandits, Linhardt jogs over to comfort a clearly shaken Bernadetta. Edelgard, however, turns her attention to the group’s leader. She wordlessly parts from the rest of her housemates and marches up to the ruin where the bandit leader is hiding. Byleth notices Edelgard’s absence, and spins around, catching sight of her approaching the ruin, her axe ready to strike. _Perhaps to sink the bit of her axe into his shoulder, as he did to her in another time. A repayment._

“Yes, yes, the irony is well and good...” Sothis interjects, agitated. “But you’re going to stand by and let her kill him? Before you have a chance to talk to him?!”

Byleth stops thinking and starts reacting. She grabs the sleeve of Hubert’s jacket, and pulls him in her direction. “C’mon, let’s go,” she prompts him. He tugs his left glove more snugly onto his hand, his feet moving in the princess’ direction. Byleth moves alongside the tall mage, but stops to turn back only for a second to point at Bernadetta and Linhardt, who, despite the dazed look of shock and terror on their faces, were scrambling to catch up to them.

“Stay back,” she orders, her voice stern and commanding. They stop immediately and shake their heads.

Byleth turns back around to shoot a look at Hubert. They’re practically running now to try and close the distance between them and Edelgard. She begins to climb the crumbling steps of the ruin.

“Spoiled little noble! Just die like a good little rich kid!” The bandit leader snarls at her, readying his own axe and his steel shield.

“Do you really think being born a commoner gives you the right to kill? Despicable,” she seethes in response. The grip on her axe handle tightens, and she raises her weapon to strike.

“Halt, Edelgard!”

Byleth moves in, pushing past her. Edelgard’s movement stutters to a stop as she watches Byleth engage the bandit leader with two swings of her blade, countered easily with his shield. A spell from Hubert knocks the bandit off-balance enough for Byleth to disarm him. The dark magic leaves behind a static charge in the air and the faintest smell of rotten eggs. Byleth grabs the bandit’s tunic, hoisting up the fallen criminal to be level with her steely glare with one hand, blade at this throat with her other.

“I should have never listened to that _idiot_ … What a mistake…” the bandit growls. He struggles against his captor, to no avail.

Byleth grabs more fabric of his shirt, tightening her grip as his collar begins to constrict his neck. The bandit can’t seem to take a full breath, and his hands begin to claw and find purchase on Byleth’s arms. She draws his face closer to hers, as he desperately paws at her unwavering arms. “What idiot?” Byleth questions, releasing her hold only the slightest to allow him enough air to speak.

“Why should I tell you?” he sneers, spitting at Byleth.

She grimaces, but doesn’t react immediately. Hubert, however, is quick to retaliate. He moves in and kicks the bandit’s leg, then wrenches his hands off of Byleth and twists them painfully behind his back.

“Because I let you go free before,” Byleth tells the bandit, wiping her cheek on her shoulder. “Perhaps I’ll be as merciful again today if you cooperate.” She presses the blade of her sword into the flesh of his neck—not enough to draw blood, but enough for him to feel the pressure and coolness of the metal on his skin.

“Now,” Byleth continues her questioning. “Why did you and your bandits attack a group of students… children?”

“We were told to track and eliminate this group of knights and teachers. Sure as hell didn’t know it’d be the Knights of fuckin’ Seiros! And I wasn’t about to kill a bunch of fuckin’ kids—”

“You _were_ about to kill me and my classmates! You disgust me,” Edelgard cuts him off, taking a threatening step forward with her axe. Byleth notices her agitation. Looking at her face, her eyes are dark and her brows knitted together; she can see that the princess’ mask was starting to slip.

“Hey, we only raised a sword to you brats because YOU tried to fight us,” the bandit retorts. “It was self-defense—ACK!”

His last word was a strangled cry as Byleth swiftly yanked his collar closer to her, his toes dragging through the rubble of the ruin as she pulled him. “Who gave you the order to attack?”

Byleth knows who ordered the attack; Edelgard admitted as much in the previous time, only it came after everything went to hell. While she already knew the answer to her own question, she needed the bandit to speak it aloud for her plan to work.

“You really don’t wanna know that—”

“I do,” she cuts him off again with another tug on his collar followed by a press of her blade on his throat. “Who gave you the order?”

“T-This guy called the Flame Emperor. I-I don’t know anything about him!”

“You don’t know about who you work for?” 

“He gave us a ridiculous amount of coin to make sure we killed a teacher or some bullshit. All that bullion for one guy’s head? I’d be stupid not to take the job!”

“A... teacher?”

“That’s all I know, for fucks sake! Now are you gonna let me go? That Flame _Fuck_ will surely kill me this time…”

“She sent them after one of the professors? How… peculiar?” Sothis wonders aloud. Silence follows for a beat that feels like an eternity and Byleth mind reels. There’s a ringing in her ears.

“Edelgard,” Byleth says suddenly, still staring at the bandit squirming against hers and Hubert’s hold. “Should we turn him into Rhea? Or should we let him go back so that this Flame Emperor he speaks of can finish the job?”

The silence that follows prompts Byleth to turn her head to look at the princess. She studies her face, looking for any trace of emotion on Edelgard’s face besides shock… perhaps she is also looking for her mask to slip enough to betray enough emotion to serve as an admission of guilt. Byleth isn’t surprised when Edelgard gathers her composure quickly. What she _is_ surprised at is _herself_ , at the words she let herself speak.

“Honestly, Professor… his crimes are reprehensible,” Edelgard declares, though sounding hesitant to speak at first. “He would be executed if we were in the Empire. He should pay for his crimes with his life.”

“Well, then...”

“Hey! I thought you were gonna let me go!” the bandit yelps, struggling against Hubert’s grasp out of desperation and panic.

“Princess, I’ll let you do the honors,” Byleth says, removing the blade of her sword from the bandit’s neck. She glances at Hubert, who tightens his hold on him after Byleth releases her grip on his collar.

“Why me?” Edelgard blinks at her.

_Why not? You must be used to this._

“The future emperor should know that your sentencing is absolute, as sure as swinging your sword with your own hands,” Byleth says instead. She hands the princess her sword, and steps aside. Edelgard pauses for a half-second, but extends her hand to take hold of the blade. _An agreement._ Hubert wrangles the bandit over to a corner of the ruin, shoving his cheek down onto a flat surface of stone. Edelgard raises the blade to its apex.

“At least you’ll give him a better death than his boss,” Byleth murmurs, just loud enough for the princess to hear, as her blade swings down on the bandit’s neck. Against the rest of the bandits, Edelgard only wore her mask... stoic as ever, unfazed by battle or watching the life leave someone’s eyes. But just now, as the blade strikes the stone, and blood splatters out onto her red tights and white gloves…

Byleth swears that she saw Edelgard flinch.

Hubert stands, wiping the smattering of blood on his face with the back of his hand. He takes the blade from Edelgard, but says nothing. _Perhaps there is nothing to say._ Byleth motions for her two students to head down from the ruins and rejoin the rest of the Black Eagles ahead of her.

She waits back, and glances back at the bandit’s body in a heap on the rubble, having fallen off the stone. Feeling something brush against her right side, Byleth snaps her head to look down. She sighs realizing it’s the goddess.

“How bold, Byleth. I like it. Honestly, I didn’t know you had it in you,” Sothis tells her. She paces to the other side of the ruin, running her small hands against the carvings and crumbling stone. She looks lost in thought. “Just... be careful…”

  
  


* * *

Byleth approaches the Blue Lions classroom. The last classes of the day would be commencing in a few moments, and she hopes to catch the Faergus students before they leave their common room. Well, she's looking for one student in particular.

She overhears Manuela dismiss them, and decides to poke her head in the door. Sylvain slings his book bag over his shoulder while chatting with Ingrid. Ashe and Annette are discussing some books, and Mercedes is helping Professor Manuela clean the chalkboard. Some of the other students file out of the classroom past Byleth, including Felix, who looks at her with suspicion or scorn. She can't quite determine which.

When the others leave the classroom, they joyously greet Byleth, their kindness making her blush. Sylvain is especially joyous, making a comment about her outfit that makes her blushing cease immediately. Ingrid smacks his arm, and Byleth silently thanks her.

Now that the classroom was mostly empty, she ducks inside to look for him.

“Oh, Professor, wonderful to see you," Manuela says, gathering her tomes in her arms. Byleth smiles in response, but her attention is quickly stolen. 

“Professor! A surprise to see you," Dimitri interjects. She looks up at him as he cards his gloved hand through his hair. The late afternoon sun trickling through the stained glass windows of the classroom cascades him in a glorious golden light. It makes his face look softer, less tired and less _troubled_ … a Dimitri she thought she would never see again.

"Your class the other day was riveting - it showed me I still have much to learn. Anyway, enough about me…" he shakes his head, and his gaze flicks down shyly for a moment. "What brings you here?” His cheeks are pink.

“I apologize, your Highness. But..." Byleth says softly. She truly wishes she could spend time with him, to talk with him and dream with him… like old times. But she hasn't found the chance to yet in this time… and this time is not like the old time. Maybe soon, she wishes, when she isn't chasing legends and mining for secrets, or trying to recruit allies while digging moats around foes…

And certainly not this evening. She has an important mission.

"I actually was looking for Dedue,” she says tentatively.

Dimitri's face falls. She doesn't even think he is aware that it did. The sight of it makes her want to reach out to grasp his hand. _But that would be inappropriate_ , she tells herself.

“Yes, Professor," the prince's retainer speaks up.

“Dedue, sorry to interrupt. I was hoping to speak with you?” she asks.

Dimitri reaches out and pats the taller man's shoulder. “I’ll go on ahead, Dedue.” He gives Byleth a small smile and a wave, then excuses himself, polite as ever.

“What did you wish to speak with me about?” Dedue inquires stoically.

“I need your help with something.”

* * *

The heat from the hot coals coupled with the dying flames of the kitchen’s wood burning oven causes sweat to drip down Byleth’s face. She wipes her brow with the back of her hand, then in turn wipes her hand on the apron tied around her waist. She had shirked off her coat earlier, to avoid getting it dirty and also in part due to the sweltering heat of the kitchen.

Dedue works over the coals beside her, fishing out vegetable scraps and chicken bones from a large pot of boiling stock. They work in relative silence, aside from him giving Byleth a direction or answering a question. It’s pleasant, though. His presence is calming, and despite the sweltering environment, Byleth has to admit that learning to cook is rather fun. She had never cooked in her mercenary days; her father had always prepared meals for them. And back at the academy in the previous time, she only remembers being dragged into the kitchen by Annette and Lysithea to make cakes—and even then, Byleth really only got to taste the batter and watch the two small mages excitedly decorate the cakes afterward.

“You know so much about cooking, Dedue,” Byleth acknowledges the tall man. “I am sorry that I never asked you how you got to be such an experienced cook!” 

“My sister and I helped with cooking at home back in Duscur,” he replies, taking a spoonful of the stock he is working on. He blows on the spoon to cool it, then tastes it. “Needs salt,” he remarks, mostly to himself, and adds a healthy pinch to the pot, giving it a stir.

“Who taught you? To cook, I mean,” Byleth asks.

His stoic face softens for a moment, and he smiles ever so slightly. A rare sight. “My mother. I learned much from watching her cook.” Byleth can sense that he has fond memories of his mother, powerful enough to bring even the smallest of smiles to his face. He offers a spoonful of the stock to Byleth, and she takes the spoon from his hands, letting it cool a moment before slurping it up rather noisily.

“How unladylike, Byleth!” Sothis chides her playfully. The goddess is sitting on one of the tables, her legs swinging off the edge as she fans herself in the heat of the kitchen.

“Mmm, this is turning out delicious, Dedue,” she appraises, humming pleasantly at the savory flavor of the stock. “I am so thankful for your help, and your gift for preparing delicious food. Your cooking truly celebrates your mother.”

“Thank you, Professor,” he says. “Cooking helps me stay connected to my family and my old home in Duscur.”

Despite the heat radiating from the coals their pots were nestled in, Byleth feels a shiver run through her at the thought of Duscur. Her heart may not beat, but it aches for Dedue and the family and homeland he lost. Dimitri had told her about the Tragedy of Duscur in the previous time, about what it stole from him and Dedue. And Ingrid… Felix, too…

Though Duscur was a topic Felix refused to speak about with Byleth, it affected him, too, nonetheless. The four Blue Lions students lost so much on that day. Sadness and anger churns inside of Byleth at the thought of it.

“I… I wanted to say that you take good care of Dimitri, and the rest of the Blue Lions,” she tells Dedue, finally pulling out of her thoughts. “It was Ashe and Ingrid that actually recommended me to ask you for help cooking this. They speak so highly of you. I just… wanted you to know that.”

“I am… pleased to hear that they enjoy my cooking,” he responds. It’s apparent that he’s not used to compliments.

“They enjoy your company, too.”

Dedue hums in response. He turns his attention to another pot that had been getting hot over the coals. He adds a knob of butter to the pan, and Byleth watches as it melts into a pool of shimmering gold. He motions for her to pass over the onions he had her chop earlier. Dumping them into the pan, they sizzle immediately, and he gives them a quick stir.

“You take good care of others, too, Professor,” he breaks the silence. “His Highness told me about how much he appreciates your help from the bandits, and how much he learns from you in your classes.”

Byleth’s face relaxes into one of surprise, and perhaps also relief. She realizes her face feels warm, but not from the hot coals.

“He was upset at first that you did not choose our house, but I told him that houses should not define who we learn from and who we work with,” he continues. “If His Highness, the future King of Faergus, and myself, a man from Duscur, are able to work together... a Blue Lion and a Black Eagle should be able to be allies.”

He gives the onions another stir. The simmering of the stock and the sizzle of the onions fill the silence that falls between them. “You are very wise, Dedue. Thank you,” she says, after a beat. “For your help, and the conversation.”

Dedue nods. She thinks that she saw the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile, but she concludes it was probably her imagination. “Time to add the chicken,” he tells her. She smiles wide enough for the both of them, as she lays the poultry skin-side down in the pot as he instructs.

  
  
  


* * *

"Thank you, dearest Professor. Due to your skill and the guidance of your students, the bandits no longer can threaten the Church.” Rhea clasps her hands in front of her as she tilts her head to smile down at Byleth.

"The Knights dispatched with your house spoke quite highly of your aptitude, as well,” Seteth reports. He coughs uncharacteristically. “A job well done," he adds. Byleth has to stifle a grin at his remark. At least her plan to get Seteth to stop hating her was working.

Sothis clears her throat loudly, and Byleth focuses back on the mission debrief.

“I pray that the souls of those bandits find salvation,” Rhea laments, raising her gaze to the heavens. “Buy why did they target the students to begin with?”

Byleth feels Sothis tug on her coat sleeve. “It’s now or never,” the goddess whispers to her. 

"Excuse me, Lady Rhea?” Byleth asks as innocently as she can. The archbishop’s gaze falls to look at the young professor with her brow raised in question. “I don’t believe the bandits targeted the students at all. The leader of the bandits said their order was that a _teacher_ be eliminated.”

Seteth looks taken aback, but his face relaxes after a moment of thought. “Ah, there was one professor accompanying the Knights and the students on the trip,” he remarks, grabbing his chin in thought.

“You lost one of your professors?” Byleth asks, alarmed at the confirmation that the Flame Emperor— _Edelgard_ —wanted a professor dead.

“Oh, no! Not—not like that, I sincerely apologize for the confusion,” Seteth backtracks, shaking his head. “There was a new professor that was going to teach and take charge of one of the three houses this year. That professor was merely getting acquainted with the Knights and students the day of the bandit attack,” he explains.

Rhea sighs deeply. “Thankfully, he was not harmed in the attack. And neither were any of the students, thanks to you,” she adds. “He… fled. After the attack. But the will of the goddess brought _you_ to the Academy, instead, as she would have it.”

Byleth blinks up at her. _Why a professor?_ Her mind was reeling. Sothis tugs on her sleeve again, pulling her out of her panicked thoughts.

“There’s another thing you should know,” Byleth says, tentatively. “They told me they were given this order from someone called the ‘Flame Emperor.’”

The color leaves Seteth’s face, and his eyes widen… clearly perturbed by this fact. He opens his mouth to say something, but words evade him, and he presses his lips into a thin line. Rhea, on the other hand, appeared calm as ever. She didn’t seem to react at all. Her gaze did not leave Byleth, and eventually the professor had to look away.

_I can’t read her, it’s… uncomfortable…_

“What else— Did the bandits tell you anything else about this Flame Emperor?” Seteth asks, stumbling over his words in his obvious worry. He glances over at Rhea, raising his eyebrows and giving her a curious look. Almost as if he was looking for some reaction from the archbishop, but Byleth couldn’t make sense of any of it.

“Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to gather any more information,” Byleth replies, bowing slightly.

“I see,” Lady Rhea finally speaks. “We must further investigate this Flame Emperor, and his true intentions behind all that took place. Until we know more, I ask that you support the students. They should not know of this Flame Emperor—it would only cause them unnecessary worry.”

“Of course,” Byleth says cooly. Inside, she is bubbling with unease.

The archbishop turns to face her advisor. “Please, Seteth, if you could gather the Knights for a briefing.” He nods, and makes his exit. Byleth moves to leave, thinking she is dismissed as well, until Rhea speaks again to stop her.

“Professor, if you could stay for a moment.”

Byleth turns back to face Rhea, bowing and murmuring an apology.

“It is certainly alright, Professor,” she laughs breathily. The unease inside Byleth grows. “I just wanted to ask, how was your time in Zanado?”

“It was… We were there for battle, so I guess I didn’t have time to look around…” Byleth answers, perhaps a little too honestly. Her response earns a sigh from Rhea, her shoulders falling slightly.

“I suppose. It was… insensitive of me to ask. I apologize,” she says, frowning. “Legend has it, in ancient times, a goddess alighted upon this world in that very canyon. For a goddess from the heavens, Zanado could only have been a temporary haven.”

“Temporary?” Byleth wonders.

Rhea smiles wistfully at Byleth. “The goddess is always watching over Fodlan from her kingdom above. However, in ancient times, the goddess graced this world with her presence and offered salvation to the people here.”

The door to the audience chamber swings open, the noise capturing the attention of both Byleth and Rhea. It was Seteth, his green hair swinging as he bows quickly upon stepping into the room.

“Lady Rhea, I am sorry to interrupt. There is something I must ask about in regards to… those bandits…”

She smiles and nods at Seteth, who is quick to turn around and exit again. “Thank you again for your help, Professor. I am hoping we can continue our discussion when next we meet,” she tells Byleth.

She glides across the stone floor of the chamber, presumably to meet with Seteth and Knights of Seiros about the Flame Emperor.

_Sothis… you said Zanado was familiar to you… last time, too._

“I did… but then again, between these two times, I still don’t have all my memories back! Legend has it that I lived there, but I can’t remember _anything_ except that I’ve been there before. How frustrating,” the goddess grumbles, shuffling her feet on the floor anxiously. “But this time, you should definitely continue that discussion with Rhea. I wonder how much she will really tell you about me.”

  
  


* * *

Byleth was feeling exceptionally guilty about not spending more time with the leader of the Blue Lions house. She had only been here a little over a month, and they hadn’t as much as eaten a meal or had more than a five minute conversation together. He was always so excited and eager when they saw each other, yet always so dejected when they parted ways. Those looks of his really pulled at her heartstrings, making Dedue’s words from the other night sting even more.

_He was upset that I did not choose the Blue Lions…_

“Can’t really blame him. I’m upset, too, actually…” Sothis snarks in her ear.

Byleth frowns. She’d be lying to herself if she said she hadn’t considered leading the Blue Lions in this time. _I couldn’t pick them_ , she thinks back to Sothis. _I shouldn’t get too close to him again…_

“Yet you’re here sparring with him. And it’s not because you feel bad about ignoring him, it’s because you _miss him_ ,” the green-hair goddess snaps back from her seat at the edge of the training grounds.

The prince is strong—far stronger than Byleth could ever hope to be. And it makes for a great sparring partner. He spins and tries to land a hit on Byleth’s left side, but she parries the blow easily. She pushes back his lance with the blade of her training sword, and his right hand loses grip on his weapon. He grasps his weapon again with a grimace, and readies himself to attack again, but not before she lowers her weapon.

“Your arm,” she says simply. She points her wooden sword at his forearm.

“It’s no matter, professor,” he assures her, flipping his golden bangs out of his eyes. “Just something from a mission the other day.”

To his dismay, she walks up to him, closing the distance between the two of them. “Did you see Manuela about it?” she inquires.

“No need.”

“You mustn’t let things go like this, especially when you can just get it healed,” Byleth lectures him, her tone gentle, though. “Come here.” She motions for him to give her his bad arm.

“Professor, please, I assure you—” he pleads with her one last time, though at this point, he realises that their sparring match is definitely over for the day.

“I can’t spar with an injured opponent,” she tells him, looking up into his blue eyes. A few beats pass until he finally relents, closing his eyes to avoid her stare… handing over his injured arm reluctantly to her. Byleth is so close to him; he prays to the goddess that the shadows from the dwindling evening sun cover the redness on his face.

“OK, it’s just… my—” he stutters.

She peels off his gauntlets to get to his forearm and reveals the burned and knotted patches of skin long healed over from past injuries. It doesn’t faze her, as she has seen the burn scars on Dimitri’s skin many times before. But she quickly realizes that he hasn't shown her yet in _this_ time. Her fingers softly graze the skin of his forearm, tracing over a nasty bruise, deep indigo and crimson, feathering to green and ugly mustard yellow on the edges. Byleth thinks the muscle of his forearm is likely bruised as well. The scars from his burns make white patterns though the black and blue.

Byleth places a gentle hand over the bruise, and Dimitri elicits the tiniest shiver at her touch. She casts a Heal spell, her hand glowing in white light as it restores him quickly, the nasty bruise immediately fading away. 

“It might be sore for about a day or two still, but the bruising is almost entirely gone now. Should help you hold that lance better,” she tells him, still holding his forearm in her hands.

“Thank you, Professor,” he smiles down at her.

“Hey, look ahead!” Sothis shouts at Byleth, causing her to look up.

In the other corner of the training grounds was Edelgard. The eye of her axe was pressed into the dirt, as she leaned on the handle of her weapon. She had no sparring partner. She just stood alone, observing her and Dimitri astutely.

Byleth immediately pulls away from the prince, and he nervously apologizes. She’s also too nervous to reassure him or even feel bad for ruining yet another moment between them.

_Was she watching the entire time?_

“I don’t know,” Sothis replies, still looking over at Edelgard. “Do you think she saw you?”

  
  


* * *

“Why go through all this trouble?” Felix stood before her, arms folded tightly across his chest. It was a rare moment where he was wearing his Academy jacket, but then again, this late at night it still got rather chilly. And this late at night, he didn’t expect anyone to be in the dining hall.

But then again, the Academy’s newest professor always seemed full of surprises.

“It wasn’t trouble at all. Please, sit,” Byleth assures him, motioning her hand to the spot opposite her and the two bowls of piping hot stew on the table before them. Only a few of the chandeliers are still alight, so the dining hall is softly aglow with the flicker of dying candles… and empty, aside for the two of them. Steam swirled above the bowls of Daphnel stew, its aroma wafting through the air, inviting them in after a long day of classes and training.

“You realize I _know_ it was trouble for you, right?” Felix insists, furrowing his brow. “Sending away to Faergus for a recipe… letting _Caspar_ pick out the chicken… are you sure it’s even _safe_ to eat? Learning to cook from the boar’s lap dog... making Bernadetta leave her room to garden—of _all_ things…”

Byleth huffs and cuts him off, making no effort to conceal the ire in her voice. “First off, Caspar did not pick out the chicken, and if he did, what difference would it make? Second, I cooked with _Dedue_ , so you have him to thank for this meal as well. And lastly, Bernadetta was already in the greenhouse that day when I got there.”

“So, you admit to going through a lot of trouble for this,” Felix says, smirking.

“Only if you admit to spying on me,” she counters, folding her arms to match his pose.

“I thought I was fairly forthcoming about that, Professor. Now tell me why you bothered doing all this for me,” he demands, pointing to the steaming bowls of stew sitting on the table.

“You’re trying to figure out if you can trust me,” she says, letting her arms fall to her sides. “I understand.”

“Hmph.”

Byleth scans the dining hall for any wandering students or faculty, then takes a breath to ready herself.

“I guess I’ll cut right to it,” she begins, looking unwaveringly into his eyes. “I travelled here from the future to stop a war from happening. A war that begins in a year’s time, right here at Garreg Mach. You and I were allies… _friends_. We fought together.”

Sothis is screaming at her. Byleth tries her best to ignore the fit that the goddess is throwing. She studies Felix’s face, looking for any indication of anything at all since he was so silent. _Why aren’t you saying anything?_ she thinks. _Please say something… please..._

“Is this a joke? Why are you telling me this?” he finally asks, still giving her a scrutinizing glare.

“You told me to find you and tell you everything,” she says simply. He continues to stare back at her wordlessly.

“Byleth, look at him. _Look. At. Him._ You have to turn back and try this again,” Sothis begs. “Maybe _without_ dropping an entire pile of bricks on him?”

Byleth ignores the goddess’ protests again.

“I went through all this trouble because I know it’s your favorite dish, Felix,” she confides to him, voice careful. “It was the last meal you and Glenn shared.”

His brow is still furrowed, but his expression softens instantly. His lips part the slightest bit—the most a Fraldarius would ever have his jaw drop—and a shaky breath escapes between them.

“How… how do you know that?” he murmurs. She’s never heard his voice so unsure, so fragile.

“You told me.”

He blinks at her in response, so she repeats herself with more explanation. “You told me to tell you something only _you_ could know.”

He is still staring at her blankly. Sothis was pressing her to turn back and try again another day, but Byleth couldn’t abandon her effort just yet. She knows he hates to talk about his brother, but it might be the only way to get through to him.

“I need an ally, and I trust you with my life. I hope you can trust me. I’ll tell you everything,” Byleth pleads, her own voice cracking with emotion. “I… I don’t want to lose innocent people to an avoidable conflict.” She pauses, then whispers the rest. “I don’t want people to die like your brother, Felix. That’s why you fought alongside me before, and that’s why I am hoping you’ll do so again now.”

Silence.

Byleth stared back at him, silenting begging him to say something… _anything_ . Tears began to burn at the corner of her eyes, and she scrunches up her face to try and stop them from falling down her face. She was about to use a divine pulse to go back… to never invite him to the dining hall... to never, _ever_ be cruel enough to bring up the memory of his dead brother to persuade him of anything... but then Felix finally unfolded his arms and placed them on his hips. Byleth bit the inside of her cheek.

“Well, I can’t _not_ believe you. After that,” he says flatly. He sighs, and drops his gaze to the floor.

“OK,” she whispers. 

“Just because I don’t doubt what you said _doesn’t_ mean that I trust you,” he warns her, looking anywhere but her face.

She nods. “I understand. Will… will you eat, at least? Before it gets cold,” Byleth asks him, her voice timid.

He raises his eyes to meet hers, the sudden intensity of his gaze burning into her. “Only if you tell me _everything_.”

* * *

“Byleth?”

She looks up from the book she’s reading at the sound of her name. Sothis is sitting cross-legged, nestled across from Byleth on the mezzanine of library. There is little light up here as shadows play across the leather spines of old tomes, just enough of a glow for Byleth to regard the goddess’ troubled expression.

“I am sorry for what I said before. I may not have chosen you, but I would pick you if I had a choice,” Sothis admits, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. She fiddles with the ribbons braided into her hair.

 _I accept your apology_ , Byleth thinks back to her. She offers a gentle smile, but it falls away as a mussed head of hair pops up from the ladder, startling both of them.

“Hey Teach! Whatcha up to hiding away up here?”

_Claude._

“Not hiding, just reading. Trying to, at least,” Byleth responds. Sothis grumbles, not budging from her seat.

“ _The Book of Seiros_? _The History of Fodlan_? _The Four Saints_? Some pretty dense material if you ask me,” Claude remarks as he pulls himself up onto the mezzanine, rearranging himself into a seated position next to Byleth. He leans his head back against the shelf of books behind him. “Either you’re studying to become a monk, or you got saddled with an assignment of your own. You don’t really seem like the type to join the priesthood… so did Seteth stick you on this?”

“Perceptive,” she says under her breath.

“What can I say, I’m good at reading people,” he laughs, smirking at her. She figures she could go back to reading, but knows the effort would be futile with Claude as a distraction. Byleth closes the dusty tome with a thud, and leans forward to rest her forehead on the cover in defeat and frustration. Wrapping her arms around her bent knees, she lets out a long sigh, earning a chuckle from her visitor.

“So I’ve been reading through these books all afternoon, and I can’t find a single thing about Zanado,” she mumbles into the book. “Do you know anything about it, Claude?” She turns her head to face him, left cheek resting on the cool leather of _The Founding of the Adrestian Empire._

“Interesting you bring that up, Teach,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “When word broke that you were going there on your mission, I overheard some of the monks talking and they said that Zanado is a place of great significance to the Church. That members of the church are forbidden from entering there without permission.”

She hums in response. “That explains why we were dispatched so quickly when the bandits were spotted there, then.”

“Don’t you think they were there for a reason? To cause trouble, I mean,” Claude asks, the emerald of his eyes glinting in the low light as he turns to They’re the same bandits who targeted us, remember? They seemed to target the Church twice.”

“Hmm, an interesting thought indeed. Perhaps this young lord isn’t as annoying as I thought…” Sothis wonders, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger.

_He’s right. We know why the Church was targeted the first time—they wanted to eliminate the new professor with them. The second time, though…_

“But what would they be doing in Zanado?” Byleth asks, partially to Claude must mostly to herself as a memory from the previous time returns to her.

  
  
  


_“My teacher,”_

_“On our way out, I had the chance to observe the Red Canyon. Did you notice anything, Professor?”_

_“I did, it was covered in ruins.”_

_“Exactly. Each more curious than the last. They did not match the architectural style of any era or culture within the Empire. Or across all of Fodlan, for that matter.” “That can only mean one thing… the valley’s civilization must have flourished and fallen in the distant past, long before the Empire was established.”_

_“A culture long perished… interesting to think about who would have lived there.”_

_“Perhaps their remnants still influence this world.”_

  
  
  


Byleth pinches the bridge of her nose at the memory. _You lived there, Sothis._

“I did. You keep bringing it up, Byleth, but I’m still fuzzy on all the details,” the goddess replies, shaking her head. “There’s still more for us to find out. But it’s clear that Edelgard knows more than she’s letting on.”

 _Do you think_ she _knows you lived there, Sothis?_

“I… I don’t know.”

“Hey Teach, you alright?” Claude says, giving her a gentle nudge with his elbow. “You seem deep in thought. What’s troubling you?”

“Claude… have you ever seen the Red Canyon?” Byleth asks suddenly, sitting up to look at him.

“Hmm, can’t say I have.”

“It was the strangest thing… Nothing there... was actually red…” she tells him, recounting the times she’s visited the place in the past and present. “Why would it be called the Red Canyon if it isn’t red?”

There’s a crash below them that interrupts their conversation, followed by a surprised yelp. Byleth’s eyes widen. _Someone’s here_ , she thinks to herself, mind in a panic. _What did I say? Did they hear what we talked about? I thought the library was empty… I thought it was just us!_

“Do you mean ‘us’ as in you and me? Because Claude’s here, you know,” Sothis snaps, rolling her eyes. “You fool… you realize that you were gossiping to him about semi-secret Church matters, right? Let’s hope you can trust this eavesdropper as much as you trust _Claude von Riegan_ all of a sudden... of _all_ people…”

Byleth and Claude scramble forward to clutch the railing and look down at the cause of the commotion. Down on the main level of the library, a figure was hurriedly picking up fallen books that had flown all over the floor in the crash. Byleth eyes narrow at the back of the person’s head, but then they turn around. Their gaze settles on Claude at first, then it moves over to her, eyes widening in shock or curiosity—Byleth can’t tell. She’s also certain she can’t breathe.

“Professor, it _was_ you that I heard up there!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You like Gautier Cheese... don’t ya, Ingrid?” ;)
> 
> Also, an extra large bullion to who can pick out the (rather blantant) Shakespeare reference in this chapter. ~(=^‥^)ノ☆


	3. The High Priestess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude finds someone to scheme with. Byleth falls down. Hubert is afraid of heights. Flayn sings a song. Dimitri is breathless. And Tomas gifts a book to someone.
> 
> "Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind."  
> - _King Lear, 4.1.53_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised this chapter before the end of January, and I was able to finish it up in the final hour of the month. Whew. Thanks again to everyone who reads and leaves kudos or comments--y'all are the best. And this is another long chapter, so I hope you all enjoy! :)

“How long were you down there eavesdropping?”

Linhardt stands up and places the tomes on the table beside him. He brushes off his uniform and looks up at Byleth with wide eyes. _Feigning innocence_ , she thinks to herself.

“Me? Eavesdropping? I would never, Professor. I’m only here working on my research.”

Byleth sighs and pushes herself away from the railing. She descends the ladder with an intention to lecture the mage face-to-face.

“But Professor, if you want to know more about Zanado and the history of Fódlan, I’d probably be a better resource than Claude,” he remarks flatly. “That or one of those books Seteth gave you.” He gestures tiredly to the stack of tomes that Claude was passing down to her.

“I thought you said you weren’t eavesdropping?!” Byleth whirls around so fast she nearly drops the books in her arms.

“I wasn’t! You two should be quieter if you don’t want people to hear you.”

“Forget the eavesdropping—what makes you think you’re more of a historian than I am, Linhardt?” Claude climbs down the ladder and moves to stand beside Byleth in solidarity. Though they practically corner him, Linhardt hardly seems fazed. He crosses his arms with a sigh.

“Simple. I have spent my entire life in Fódlan; indoctrinated in its history. You are not from Fódlan, and have only come here recently,” he says plainly, turning to walk away from them.

“Hey, wait…” Claude grabs his sleeve, pulling back into the conversation. “How do you even know that?”

“Just an inference, though thank you for confirming that I was correct,” Linhardt says with a yawn. Byleth hears Sothis sing the praises of the mage. She mentally shushes her as he continues with his conjecture. “Duke Riegan’s daughter left Fódlan to marry an Almyran prince against her family’s wishes and pressure from the other Alliance nobles… oh, nearly two decades ago, now? And just this year, the Duke appoints _you_ as his heir. Based on your looks, I just put two and two together. Not a big deal, truly.”

“Well, I’ll be…” Sothis hums. “Quite intelligent he is for someone who spends his entire day sleeping.”

“Ha, you are good, I’ll give you that, Linhardt. Just don’t go blabbing it around to everyone,” Claude warns, his typically lighthearted demeanor hardening into a rather serious expression.

“I won’t, I won’t…”

Byleth steps forward to interject. “You also won’t mention anything to anyone about—”

“What you and Claude were discussing? No, I won’t.” Byleth sighs in relief, her shoulders visibly relaxing. Claude gives her a nudge with his elbow.

“However,” Linhardt says, causing Byleth to tense back up. “I would appreciate it if you would allow me to add my observations to your discussion.”

Byleth opens her mouth to protest, but Claude is quicker to respond. “Sure! We’d love to hear, wouldn’t we, Teach?” He claps his hand on her shoulder, and she once more almost drops the books in her arms. He laughs at her and whisks the stack out of her hands, sliding them onto the table beside them.

“Oh, of course…” she trails on. Sothis is muttering something under her breath that Byleth can’t quite make out. Byleth silently hopes that she won’t have to use a Divine Pulse today.

“Oh splendid!” Linhardt exclaims, clapping his hands together weakly. “Claude, I know you were not with us, but Professor… did you happen to notice the ruins in the Red Canyon?”

_The crumbling stone at her feet._

_The blood on Edelgard’s gloves._

_The blood… on my own hands?_

“The ruins? What about them?” she asks, shaking the thoughts out of her head.

“The ruins were covered in carvings… curiously, some of them are familiar. Look here,” Linhardt instructs them. He reaches for a book off the table and pulls out a handful of sheets that were tucked haphazardly between the pages. They are rubbings, presumably of the carvings he found in Zanado. Charcoal fingerprints and smudges decorate the edges of the parchment as he delicately arranges them across the table before them.

“Please tell me you did this _after_ our battle, Linhardt,” Byleth groans.

“Ugh, of course I did. But look… the carvings appear to be _crests_.”

Byleth blinks, and looks closer at the rubbings. Huh. She points at the rubbing in the center of the table, one resembling the pattern on Rhea’s robes and the signet on the Knights’ armor. “The Crest of Serios,” she observes.

“Yes, and look here… The Crest of Dominic, the Crest of Macuil…” Linhardt adds, pointing to each piece of parchment.

“Oh look! The Crest of Riegan!” Claude interjects, slapping a hand on his own crest once he spots it. He quickly realizes that move was a mistake, as his hand was now covered in sooty black charcoal that he couldn’t seem to wipe off on the fabric of his pants. Sothis giggles in the background at the young lord.

“Yes, but there’s a few carvings that I don’t recognize…” Linhardt says, rubbing his chin pensively. “Perhaps they are of crests that have been undiscovered? Or crests lost to history?”

“Yeah, look at this one…” Claude points to a rubbing of intricately woven, flowing lines that almost resembled wings. “I’ve never seen that before. Have you, Teach?”

She stares down at her own crest on the page. _The Crest of Flames._ “I have not...” she lies.

“And these, too…” Claude continues, pointing at a rubbing that looks like an anchor, another that looks like a sun… and one that Byleth swears she has seen before… _on the balcony by Rhea’s quarters?_ She scrunches her face, struggling to place the memory before it escapes…

“Ah, well...” Claude sighs, stepping away from the table.

“Thank you for sharing these, Linhardt. This is… interesting to think about,” Byleth tells him. “Knowing you, you’ll find out what these carvings are in no time.”

“You flatter me, Professor. Yet, I am actually more interested in _why_ these carvings were there in the first place. I agree with you… there is little information in this library about Zanado.”

Claude nods in agreement. “It does make sense now that Zanado is an important holy site for the Church, if there’s all those crest carvings there and all. Interesting… I wonder how old those ruins are…” He scratches the hair at the back of his head, a curious look on his face.

“Well, I don’t have enough energy to research both these mysterious carvings and the history of Zanado…” Linhardt says with a sigh, his shoulders slumping dejectedly. “Say, how about you two learn more about Zanado while I research the carvings. You seem better suited to adventure and espionage than I am, anyhow.”

Byleth looks at him dumbly for a moment. “Adventure… and _espionage_?”

“Yes, you know, digging into information that isn’t your own,” he replies with a wave of his hand. “Likely needed for a place as entrenched in lore as Zanado. Plus, I overheard some monks talking the other day about how Seteth curates the books here… and you know the ones with interesting information are the heretical ones… tsk.”

“There you go with the overhearing again. Are you sure you don’t want me and Teach to work on these carvings and you tackle the espionage?” Claude teases the mage, throwing a wink in Byleth’s direction which earns him a small smile.

“No, let him continue his research,” she says decidedly. “We’ll find out what we can about Zanado, then regroup when either of us find anything. Deal?”

Claude throws an arm around her shoulders and laughs. Byleth can’t help the grin spreading across her face. Part of her is glad that Linhardt overheard them—the same part of her that is warm with gratitude at her two new potential allies.

“Gotta hand it to ya, Teach… this is more interesting than anything Hanneman has taught us so far. You’re even making _me_ want to join the Black Eagles.”  
  


* * *

  
  


Byleth finds herself in the statuary at the Cathedral. She looks up into the gold-plated faces of the Four Saints. Her fingertips reach out, touching the smoothness of Saint Macuil's blade. "Seiros' chief tactician…" Her whisper echoes into the empty Cathedral as she reads the placard inscription.

With a sigh, she lowers her eyes to the marble floors. Memories flood back, flashes of bloodshed and agony from the war-torn landscape of her previous life. Byleth screws up her eyes, as if to stop remembering. The corners of her eyes water as she reopens them.

Looking up into the face of the statue before her, she regards his expression. Sculptors often left the eyes as smooth spheres instead of delicately carving the unique patterns of an iris and the infinite blackness of a pupil. _Perhaps the work is too difficult or tedious_ , Byleth wonders. Regardless of why, the artistic choice leaves the gaze of the Saints blank… looking nowhere, betraying nothing. No semblance of emotion or expression. In this moment, she wishes the artisans would have made those details…

Byleth studies the blank stare of Macuil above her. A futile effort to glean the saint's secrets from nothing more than a piece of gilded stone.

"Your strategy won a war…" Byleth muses. "How can my strategy stop one from happening?"

Her gaze lowers once more.

"Ashen Demon."

The booming voice fills the statuary, causing the walls and floors to tremble at the volume. The wind is knocked out of Byleth's lungs as her feet feel stuck to the stone floors, unable to move or run away. She turns her head to look for the source of the voice… despite her reeling from the sound, she's fairly certain that it came from something… inhuman.

An icy wind pushes through the Cathedral, extinguishing every candle, plunging it into darkness. The chill makes the hair on Byleth's arms stand on end, her short panicked breaths leaving in puffs of vapor.

"Your strategy and mine are not the same, Ashen Demon," the voice booms again, each syllable drawn out. The overtones were mystical and otherworldly, yet… terrifying, making Byleth dizzy. She stares up at the statue's face again, her blood pumping with fear and adrenaline.

The statue of Macuil grins wickedly down at her. Byleth blinks and rubs her eyes, thinking that it must have been due to her straining to see through the darkness… or the shadows playing tricks on her…

But when she reopens her eyes and squints, she realizes in horror that it was no illusion. The statue then tilts its head back to laugh, the reverberations making the walls of the statuary tremor once again, this time with more force. Byleth squints as dust and crumblings from the ceiling begin to fall like snow down on her shoulders. It smells like something's burning… Byleth wildly looks around and sees no fire, yet she coughs on the phantom smoke, the heat of it burning her throat. _Sothis, where are you?_

The marble floor beneath her feet begins to crack. Every ounce of her being is urging her to run… though she remains as unmoving as the other three statues. _Sothis!_

The statue of Macuil raises its gilded blade. Byleth tries to cry out, unsure of who would hear her call, but her voice is swallowed up by the statue as it speaks again.

"We share the same enemy…"

Tears roll down Byleth's face, creating tracks through the dust and ash that settled on her cheeks. The gold plating of Macuil's sword seems to shimmer in the faint moonlight. _Sothis… please…_

"...yet, it appears you also have another."

The statue of Macuil slams the point of its sword straight down into the floor of the statuary, causing the center of it to collapse.

Byleth is falling with pieces of broken marble, straight down into a dark abyss. She's not sure what she's screaming, but she knows she is; perhaps it's a prayer. Yet if it was a prayer leaving her lungs, her screams are swallowed whole… failing to take flight and reach the surface to the statues of the Saints above.

She's awfully sure she's going to die. With her fingers and toes going numb, the blood in her veins running cold like the slush left behind after freezing rain in the winter, her vision going black around her periphery… no doubt this is her end. _Not the first time I've fallen to my death_ , Byleth thinks darkly. But as sure as she is about her impending end, she's not sure about just how long she's been falling.

 _Has it been 5 minutes? 5 hours? A day or more?_ Byleth feels like it had been an eternity.

Before she can finish contemplating the duration of her descent, she slams into something solid and immovable. Her bones snap and crunch, echoing into the void surrounding her.

Then, silence.

Byleth has seen people fall before. A tumble off your horse, you'd be fine. A jump off a rooftop might earn you a broken bone or two, but you'd survive. Falling from a wyvern several yards in the air? Certain death.

So then why was Byleth still breathing?

She heard the result of what she had seen a handful of times—the impact of a fall that magnitude should have snapped her bones like twigs as they splintered and poked out of her flesh like needles in a pin cushion. Her lungs should have deflated upon impact... but Byleth sucks in a breath. She doesn't feel a thing. Testing for injuries, she shifts one of her legs. No pain, not even a limit to her range of motion. _How?_

She cracks open an eye and surveys the damage. What she sees is beyond her belief… not a single scratch. Not even a bruise!

The tests the fingers in her left hand by wiggling them. _Dear goddess…_ she thinks to herself. She rolls over onto her side, then pushes herself up into a sitting position. The darkness is suffocating; even when Byleth looks up, she can't see the surface from whence she fell.

She whispers a Fire spell and sustains it in the palm of her hand, using it as a torch of sorts to illuminate the darkness.

The soft glow of the spell reveals a wall of tall bookcases. She stands and tentatively paces over to them, the weathered floorboards creaking under each step. She reaches out with her other hand and dances her fingertips over the leatherbound spines. The tomes are covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs; leaning forward, Byleth uses her thumb to wipe away a stripe of dust from one book. The revealed title is in a language that she has never seen before. Wiping the dust from other titles reveals various other languages, and texts that looked like they hailed from Morfis and Albinea.

A sound behind Byleth startles her. She spins around, outreaching her hand to illuminate the space before her. She hears the sound again… a dragging sound… metallic, almost.

Taking a few steps forward, she sees a wooden railing and light fog beyond it. The dragging sound continues as Byleth reaches the railing. She peers over the edge and through the mist, she sees scaffolding. Due to the density of the fog, she can't quite judge how many floors are below her, nor how many are above her. She can see a soft glow illuminating what looked like the metal gates of cells across the gap.

 _Is this a prison?_ she thinks. The metallic dragging sounds again. Byleth turns and follows the railing to her right, toward the sound.

"Are those… chains?" she wonders aloud. It sounds like the metal links of heavy chains scraping over the wood floor, but she can't tell for sure.

The loud clank of one of the metal gates slamming shut across the gap draws her attention. Byleth spins on her heel to peer through the fog, the light of her Fire spell unable to reach that far a distance. She wraps her free hand around the wooden railing; it feels slimy and wet, and she pulls her hand back, wiping it on the fabric of her shorts.

Byleth cranes her neck over the railing and squints up in the direction of the noise from the gate. What she sees instead makes her tense up.

Scaffolding surrounds a granite statue, standing tall in the gap, its identity shrouded by the light fog. The statue's figure wears robes with ornate detailing. Byleth couldn't make out the face at first, but then, as if on cue, the fog dissipates.

The statue is feminine, long soft waves of hair carved into the stone. Flowers… and a crown… a crown with _wings_. Byleth's breath catches in her throat. She feels a powerful wave of deja vu wash over her. She feels… faint.

The fire spell in her hands flickers out. She stumbles forward, her arms outstretched to try to catch herself on the railing. Byleth isn't able to get a solid grip on the slick of the railing, and crashes into it instead. Her weight causes the railing to creak and give out, and she tumbles over the edge into the fog of the gap…

Byleth's eyes snap open.

She's breathing heavily, as if she just ran a long distance or fought a long battle. Her limbs ache as much, too.

"Bad dream?" Sothis asks her with a yawn, stirring from her seat in the corner of Byleth's room.

_A dream? A dream..._  
  


* * *

  
  


Byleth realizes quickly that it’s incredibly difficult to find time to speak alone with Felix. It’s inevitable that a student approaches her with a question or a request… not to mention the constant risk of someone overhearing their conversations… a lesson Byleth learned rather recently. She asked Felix one day if she was being too paranoid, after their attempt to strategize for the upcoming mission for Lord Lonato was thwarted by Hanneman interrupting and asking Byleth about her crest.

“No way,” he told her. “Edelgard is starting a war behind everyone’s back. One of the professors is a kidnapper who works for her... and our librarian is a psychopath that also works for her… it’s normal to feel that way. We should be careful.”

They decide it would be easier to meet and plan in their quarters, as they were infinitely more private than anywhere else in the monastery, and that it would be easier and less suspicious for Byleth to go to Felix’s room… lest Seteth find that students are spending nights in her chambers. While she has a long list of items she wishes to discuss with the advisor… _that_ particular topic is not one that she ever wants to add to the list.

“Are you really working with those two?” Felix asks. He’s sitting on his bed, back against the wall and knees pulled up. His forearms rest on them as he picks at his nails, a nervous habit that remains the same between times.

Byleth lounges on the cabinets underneath his window. She props one leg up on the cabinet with her, hugging her knee close to her chest, and let the other one swing over the cabinet’s edge. Letting out a sigh, she looks to the swordsman and then out the window. The rest of the monastery is softly aglow in the darkness of the night below them.

“I know you're not a fan of Claude,” she starts, remembering her friend’s ire at the Alliance lord from her previous life. “But what do you have against Linhardt? He fought on our side before.”

Felix sighs loudly. “Yeah, in a time I don't remember. He's too close to Edelgard for my comfort.”

“We're only researching things he already knew about on his own accord,” Byleth defends her choice.

“And Claude? You're sure you can trust him?”

She hears Sothis snicker in agreement; Byleth looks up and sees the goddess perched in the window sill above her. _Hush now._

“I am sure. He opposed the Empire before.”

He stops picking his nails and focuses his attention at his professor. “This is a different time though, Byleth. Just because you trusted someone before... doesn't mean you can now. People aren’t pre-destined to be the same. You’ve already told me of differences between this time and the last…” Felix closes his eyes and furrows his brow, his tone solemn. “And the more that _we_ act differently to try to change the outcome… the _more_ the outcome will change. Things we cannot predict.”

A heavy silence falls between them. He lets his eyes drop to the floor. 

“I know,” she says, her voice small.

He sighs again, eyes flicking up to meet her gaze again. “I'll follow you no matter what,” he murmurs, his tone softer this time. “But I hope you're right... that we can trust them.”

“We can't do this alone, Felix,” she says, nodding in agreement. “Plus, we need to figure out a plan for Lord Lonato’s rebellion… we march in less than two weeks’ time now. Just thinking about it gives me a headache…” Byleth groans, leaning forward to rest her forehead against her knee.

"So Catherine killed Lonato after him and his men ambushed us in the fog… am I getting that right?" he asks.

“Yes. But remember, Rhea is sending the Blue Lions along to accompany us this time,” Byleth says, motioning to him. “So you’ll be there with me, along with your housemates. Which means we have more students available to us.”

"Well, it’d be impossible for us to prevent the ambush, even with more students… And no way Rhea lets you go without the Knights." Felix clenches his fist. "No way we can tell the Knights what to do, either…"

"Then what are we left with that we _can_ do?" Byleth wonders aloud. "Lonato would have surrender… or retreat, at least."

Felix shakes his head. "He's a stubborn man. But you know, thank the goddess that Rhea is sending us along with you, because Ashe might be the only one to talk—"

"No."

He looks at her and blinks, mildly stunned. "Why? We could use him as leverage. He's the best person to reason with the old man, Byleth, and you know it," he says with an edge to his voice.

Byleth draws both her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly to her. She remembers losing Ashe in the previous time… the crushing guilt weighing heavily on her still, to this day… Memories she’d much rather forget… He deserved better from her, back then. _He deserves better now_ , she decides.

After she doesn't answer for a long beat, Felix tries to persuade her from another angle. "What do we gain from keeping Lonato alive anyway?" He watches her lips tighten into a thin line as she clenches her jaw.

"I— That came out wrong," he backpedals, shaking his head. "What do you think will change if Lonato lives this time?"

She sighs, relaxing a little. "Best case… we learn more about why Lonato is rebelling against the Church. That would help us learn more about Rhea and what she's not telling me."

"That could turn into a 'worst case' if he lives long enough to join forces with Edelgard, who also hates the Church," Felix scoffs.

"Are you going to shoot down everything I suggest?" She glares at him with a look so severe that it rivals his own. "Because at the end of the day, Ashe will lose his father. I owe him as much to keep his father alive. And the longer he is alive, the more answers we can get."

He can't bring himself to make eye contact with her, but he nods simply in agreement. He feels shame… akin to what he felt back when his father would scold him.

"You’re not wrong…" he whispers. "Y'know, Catherine is from House Charon. She was exiled from Faergus on allegations of her being involved with the Tragedy at Duscur, of all things…"

Byleth perks up from her seat on the cabinets. Sothis hums in interest above her, floating down from the window to sit behind Byleth. “This is new to us, is it not?” the goddess wonders, resting her chin on her hands, prepared to listen intently.

“But the Church took her in anyway… even acquitted her of all charges. I don’t know why, though. The Kingdom never got a response from the Church on the matter—and of course they didn’t do an investigation…”

“What does this have to do with Lonato?”

Felix’s intensity floods back as he scoots to the edge of his bed to face Byleth more directly. “After she fled to the Church, the next thing you know… Lonato’s son Christophe was found and executed by the Church for being involved in Duscur,” he explains.

“That’s when Lonato started hating the church, right?” She rubs her eyes.

Felix nods. “Now that I think of it… things just don’t add up. Tch, Catherine got off clean and becomes a Knight of Seiros, but then his son is executed with no questioning or anything...for the same crime? Damn, I’d hate the Church, too.”

He folds his hands in his lap and takes a breath. “Glenn was friends with Christophe, you know. Never had a bad thing to say about him. And they were both friends with Catherine, too. I just…” Byleth can practically hear Felix thinking. “Catherine must be hiding something about her past. About what the Church did about the whole thing.”

“Perhaps…,” Byleth says. “This is all news to me… I was never told any of this before.” She tries to stifle a yawn, but it escapes nonetheless.

“Listen to me ramble on... I’m putting you to sleep,” Felix banters, which catches her by surprise. She looks up and sees him smirking at himself, even. Byleth laughs softly, leaning her head back against the window frame and letting her eyes flutter shut for just a moment.

“You should head back. It'd be weird if I let you fall asleep there like that. Not to mention explaining to Sylvain in the morning. He’d never let it go, you know him...” Felix rises from his bed and steps over to her, giving her shoulder a friendly pat and extending his hand to help her stand up.

“Plus, I can’t see how you can possibly get comfortable up there… next time bring a pillow to sit on… or a blanket, at least,” he grumbles as he walks her to his door. She’d come to appreciate his grumbling over the time they’ve known each other, between this time and the last. Mostly because she had learned that when Felix grumbles, it’s really him being caring and thoughtful.

“Tell me the truth,” she blurts as his hand meets the door handle. “Do you think we can actually convince Lonato to surrender or retreat?” He hesitates for a moment, then opens the door for her to step out.

“I don’t know.”

Byleth nods and bids him goodnight. As his door swings shut, she glances over to the neighboring door, a sound capturing her attention. Byleth knows she should leave before one of the monks spots her during their rounds… but she hesitates and listens for a moment.

She hears him—it's unmistakable. Though quiet and muted by the stone walls and heavy door of his room, she hears him. Byleth can’t quite make out if he’s talking in his sleep, or if he’s pleading to the goddess for peace and a night of rest…

She wants to reach for his door handle like she had so many times before. She wants to comfort him like she had done on so many other nights like this. She wants…

“It’s late, Byleth. Let’s head back to your quarters,” Sothis whispers, tugging on Byleth’s cloak.

_Perhaps another time._

* * *

  
  


“I never thanked you for helping me during our last mission,” Byleth says, making her way over to the tall mage who stood apart from his classmates, alone and standing in the shadows. The Black Eagles are assigned to skywatch duty during the afternoons this week. Many of the students ditch their Officers jackets in favor of the lighter, more breathable fabric of their shirts and blouses due to the heat from the summer sun. Even Byleth wears her cloak tied around her waist to avoid overheating.

But not Hubert. His jacket remains on, buttoned to the top and prim as ever. Walking into the shade to join him, the temperature is more tolerable, she supposes.

“No need to thank me. I simply did my duty to apprehend the threat to Lady Edelgard,” he says cooly. His eyes turn to watch his classmates ascend into the blue skies on their wyverns and pegasi… but mostly to keep a close eye on Edelgard. Petra helps her mount the wyvern, then gives it a pat and steps away. The wyvern flaps its wings mightily, rising up. The princess lets loose a laugh of surprise and wonder, holding tightly to the reins.

“No one _has_ to do their duty,” Byleth says. “It's always a choice.”

“You're not wrong.”

She folds her arms to match him, a prickle of frustration running through her. “That's why I'm thanking you. Look, I know you don't trust me. You could have just let him hurt me.”

“Heh, I doubt that…” Hubert scoffs, fiddling with the hem of his jacket sleeve. “We may have only known each other a short while, but you appear more than capable. I don't trust _anyone…_ you will come to understand why. The politics of the Empire, of Fódlan… people and things are never what they seem.”

He turns to look at her crossed arms and the frown settling in on her face. _She looks… upset_ , he notes. It is familiar to Hubert—others calling him a cynic and a misanthrope… regarding him warily and going out of their way to avoid him… some even fearing him. The fact that his professor doesn’t seem particularly fazed by him in any capacity is completely and utterly _unfamiliar_ to him. And it’s as uncomfortable as it is bothersome.

“But you chose to help me despite all that, so thank you,” she responds curtly.

“I suppose you are correct.”

 _Why won’t you just walk away like the others_ , he thinks to himself.

“Hubert, I have been wondering about that day…” she says suddenly. “About what that bandit said…”

 _Ah, that’s why._ “About the Flame Emperor?” he inquires. _Curiosity killed the cat_ , he thinks.

“Yes… and that he wanted a _professor_ at the Academy dead. Why would—”

“This is really not the time or place for this sort of conversation, don’t you think, Professor?” he cuts her off, dropping his volume to a murmur. “Wouldn't want to discuss enemies of the Church so openly around the students… you were probably told not to tell anyone, correct?”

Byleth tilts her head up at him. “You are wise, von Vestra.”

“Best if you kept the Church’s secrets, Professor… although I am certain you have your own that you’re keeping from them.” He glances sideways at her, watching for a response.

“Have you ever had coffee, Hubert?” she asks instead. _Changing the topic, are we?_ he broods.

“Yes, actually. I quite prefer it to tea. I must say I'm surprised. How could a sheltered mercenary possibly enjoy such a drink?”

“With plenty of cream and sugar,” she replies with a smile, drawing a rare laugh out of Hubert. “Would you join me for a cup of coffee… a more appropriate time and place to discuss, if you will?”

“That seems feasible,” he obliges after a brief hesitation.

Some of the fliers land, dismounting and handing off their wyverns to their classmates who have been eagerly awaiting their time to fly. Hubert, however, stays back in the shade.

“Are you actually enjoying conversation with me, or is there another reason why you're refusing to take your turn?”

“Hmph, I'm not fond of heights, Professor,” he grumbles.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Her basket is close to overflowing with white roses. A light drizzle outside softly patters on the greenhouse’s ceiling, keeping time to Flayn’s singing. She relishes this precious time—away from Seteth and surrounded by beautiful flowers. Serene and alone.

“That is a lovely song you’ve been singing, Flayn.”

She jumps with a yelp, startled by the green-haired boy rising from one of the back corners of the greenhouse.

“Oh, Linhardt! I am ever so sorry for waking you!”

He dozed off a while ago while reading, the sound of the rain easing him into sleep. And while he didn’t admit it, she hadn’t truly waken him. He was awake for a while listening to Flayn’s singing echo pleasantly around the greenhouse. “Don’t fret,” he tells her as he stretches his arms. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard that song before, though…”

Flayn smiles wistfully. “My mother used to sing it to me when I was a child.”

“Aren’t you still a child?” Linhardt yawns.

“That was quite rude of you.”

“My apologizes, it was not my intention,” he tries to recover the conversation after seeing the smile fall from her face. “Say… I never knew you enjoyed gardening.”

He never sees her in the greenhouse, now that he thinks about it. And he spends an awful lot of time in here. It’s quiet, pleasantly warm… has the perks of being outdoors without _truly_ being outdoors and exposed to the elements. Or perhaps she does frequent the greenhouse… _Maybe I just end up falling asleep and missing her. Shame_ , he thinks to himself.

“I do! It is so peaceful here, surrounded by beautiful and inspiring flowers.” Flayn motions to her basket of roses. She grabs a few of the stems and begins weaving them into a chain.

“How interesting… and you are quite skilled at white magic, are you not?”

“Yes…” she says, hesitant. “Dare I ask how this is this interesting to you?”

Linhardt hums, taking a seat on the edge of one of the flower beds. “I have also interviewed several others here at the monastery… and they all admit that you have trouble focusing on detail-oriented work. Do you agree?”

“I do not— Hmph. _Yes_ , I do admit that I am not the best at sewing or cooking… but... You have not answered my question, Linhardt!” Flayn demands with a small stomp of her foot. Much to her chagrin, he prattles on.

“Fascinating. Based on my extensive research into the life of Saint Cethleann, you have many similarities to her… a love of gardening, an affinity for white magic, a difficulty focusing… You know, come to think of it,” Linhardt walks back to his napping corner to grab one of his books. He flips through the pages until he finds a particular spot, then hands her the tome to show her. “I have been studying various statues and portraits of Saint Cethleann. I now realize how similar her visage is to your own. Perhaps it’s because you both share the same Crest… Interesting, no?”

Flayn sets down her chain of flowers takes the book from him. She looks over the illustrations and descriptions of the statues quietly for a moment.

“I do not appreciate your disrespectful approach to this topic.”

“Again, not my intention,” Linhardt sighs again in defeat. “It’s just that I’ve researched Saint Cethleann so much because I too share her crest.”

“I am aware.”

“You know, I also share those same characteristics. Except for looking like the statues and paintings… and perhaps also the gardening bit…” he trails off. Linhardt does far more napping in the greenhouse than preening flowers or harvesting vegetables for the kitchen.

Flayn flips through the book, glossing over the various iconography and illustrations. She stops at one point, and rests her hand gently on the page. Her expression becomes somber, which Linhardt notices immediately. “Something catch your eye?”

“I…” she murmurs. “T-this portrait…”

The doors of the greenhouse swing open, and in walks Seteth, damp from the rain. “Flayn?” he calls. “Ah, there you are.”

He approaches her and immediately notices that something is… off. The color had left Flayn’s face, and her eyes… is she crying? He looks at Linhardt… _the gifted mage who never applied himself to anything… did he make her cry?_ Seteth thinks fleetingly. _No, not him_ , he decides after noticing her staring intently at the book in her hands.

“Is something the matter, Flayn?” he asks, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of what it is she’s reading. His jaw tightens at what he sees on the page. “Wait, this book… where did you find this?”

It’s Linhardt that answers. “I found it in the library. Why... is there a problem?”

Seteth takes the book from Flayn’s hands and closes it with a thud. He tucks it under his arm and bends down to pick up the discarded flower chain, handing it to her. Placing a hand on the back of her shoulders, Seteth hurriedly ushers her to grab her basket of roses.

“This book should not have been on the shelves,” he tells Linhardt, his voice thin yet stern. “Now, if you will excuse us. Flayn, come along.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Byleth looks out over a crowd of soldiers—thousands of them, she surmises. Their red sallets create a sea of crimson.

Civilians—merchants, nobles, and peasants alike—stand shoulder to shoulder on the fringe of the city square. The crowds fill the city streets and children look out with their parents from every open window. Everyone is eager to look upon the palace steps.

To look upon their leader.

“The leaders of the Church of Seiros have misused its creed to fulfill their _true_ desire—to rule the world.”

The crowd jostles and whispers, listening intently. Byleth is listening too. She looks over to her left and sees Edelgard. Hubert stands on the other side of her, his hands clasped behind his back. 

“They have fooled the people of Fódlan. Long ago, they divided the Empire to create a Kingdom, and then, divided that Kingdom to create an Alliance. They did all of this to make the masses bicker amongst themselves. They caused instability in order to reinforce their own authority.”

Cheers of agreement and outrage breakout amongst the crowd. Byleth shifts her weight uncomfortably. She glances behind her and takes in the grand building with towering stone columns and gilded doors glistening in the sunlight. _A… palace, right?_ Huge red banners lining the facade of the building flutter in the breeze. _Have I been here before? I don’t remember this place_ , Byleth thinks to herself.

“They gathered gold and lived in extravagance. How? By preying on the devotion of those who wished for the goddess's salvation!” Edelgard’s voice echoes out over the crowd. Byleth feels chilled and suppresses a shiver. Looking out over the sheer amount of supporters gathered at the foot of the palace steps makes her dizzy.

“Those corrupt hypocrites cannot lead Fódlan to true peace! Their foul belief system must be torn asunder so that _true_ wisdom may finally prevail! And so, I have decided— by order of the Adrestian Emperor, Edelgard von Hresvelg— the Empire hereby declares war on the Church of Seiros!”

Edelgard raises Aymr proudly in the air above her to punctuate her declaration to the masses, the relic pulsing red in her hand. The crowd erupts in cheers; soldiers raise their weapons in tow and civilians cry out their allegiance to their ruler. A chant begins—”Adrestia! Adrestia!” roars out from the crowd, ringing into Byleth’s ears and resonating deep inside her chest. The pulse of the crowd feels almost like pulse of a heart, if hers could beat.

She turns to face the emperor whose mask slips enough to give Byleth a genuine smile that crinkles the corners of her violet eyes. Edelgard looks… grateful. She reaches for Byleth’s hand and gives it a firm shake.

“From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Adrestia thanks you,” she says warmly to Byleth, leaning in close so she can be heard over the sound of the crowd. “None of this would have been possible without you, my teacher.”

_Without me?_

Byleth opens her eyes and stares up into the darkness. Sothis’s faint snores and the rhythm of rain drumming gently against her windows fill her room. She lays unmoving for a long while, trying to process her dream. The events in her dream leave her with a lingering sense of familiarity… one that unsettles her.

She remembers Edelgard’s manifesto from her previous life… but in that time, she read it on paper. In her dream, it was like she was actually there in the Empire capital.

Byleth groans and rolls over, her face smashed into her pillow. The pull of fatigue prevails over her tired attempt to analyze her dream. Somehow, though, chants of _“Adrestia!”_ lull her back to sleep.

* * *

  
  


Most of the Black Eagles are at ease with sharing their mission, some even chatting up their peers as they march alongside each other through Magdred. Caspar does his best to distract Ashe from the gravity of the situation. Sylvain tries to joke with Ingrid and Dorothea, but the latter is quick to snuff him out of the conversation. Even the timid Black Eagles archer warms up to Dedue, despite the contrast between her nervous enthusiasm about carnivorous plants and his stoic demeanor. He is patient with Bernadetta, even slowing his pace so that she didn’t have to trip over herself to keep up with his long stride.

Her eyes linger wistfully on Dimitri and Ferdinand. The two chat happily, with Ferdinand’s little-too-loud voice carrying their discussion about armor maintenance all the way to the back of the battalion. The prince doesn’t seem to mind, grinning ear-to-ear at each of Ferdinand’s bad jokes. Her chest aches longingly at the sight of the two; she wonders what they would have been like, how Ferdinand could have helped Dimitri if they had worked together in her previous life. The thought is fleeting, though.

These are all little details that Byleth wants to commit to memory… details that she never really noticed before. Gentler and simpler moments. Ones she vows never to take for granted again.

However, not all of the Black Eagles are eager to share their mission with the Blue Lions. Edelgard and Hubert walk together behind the rest of the students, maintaining their distance from them and the Knights. “Quite cruel of Rhea to send Lonato’s son, the future king, and fellow subjects of Faergus to witness his demise… all for a lesson,” Byleth had overheard Edelgard say earlier that morning over breakfast. Byleth did not disagree with her. In her past life, she and the Black Eagles attended to this mission alone. This time, however, the archbishop insisted that the Blue Lions accompany to prove a point.

“Ugh, you are right. ‘I pray the students learned a valuable lesson about the fate that awaits all who are foolish enough to point their blades towards the heavens,’” Sothis chimes in, mocking Rhea’s words. “How can she call her own doings ‘the fate of the goddess?!’ I mean, honestly…”

Byleth sighs in agreement.

Despite the reasoning behind Rhea’s order to send the Blue Lions on this mission, Byleth is grateful for the change of events. Felix marches alongside her, and after days of trying to strategize for this encounter, it is comforting to have a blade she can trust at her side.

Up ahead, Caspar makes a remark that earns him a genuine smile from Ashe, much to the relief of Byleth. She’s profoundly thankful for the young von Bergliez in this moment. The thought of what to say to the Blue Lions archer for days now… each time it drove her to tears and resulted in sleeplessness. How could she comfort someone in his position, given the circumstances? She wishes she could promise him no bloodshed… a promise of compromise, not betrayal and slaughter.

“Are you not confident that you can subvert Lord Lonato’s death?” Sothis asks, following closely behind.

“I’m not sure…” Byleth accidently murmurs her thought aloud. She notices a thicket of fog ahead and tenses.

“Hmm?” Felix inquires with a raise of his brow.

She turns her head to look up at him briefly. “Sorry, I was just… thinking…”

Felix seems to take notice of the fog, too, and moves his right hand to rest on the hilt of his sword. “Just remember our plan, OK?”

She nods back at him, leveling her gaze ahead. _Right, the plan._ They figured the best shot they had at Lonato surrendering or retreating would be to rush ahead and try their best to talk him down. To convince him to end the ambush and save as many lives as possible—militia and students alike. _Easier said than done_ , Byleth thinks to herself.

“We have to try, right?” she whispers to Felix as the battalion marches further into the dense fog.

“That’s all we can do.”

He draws his sword at the sound of weapons clattering ahead of them. A Knight from the vanguard rides in on his horse back to where her, Felix, Catherine and the other Knights are positioned at the rear.

“Catherine! A report: we’re surrounded by the enemy. They can't be avoided, and their numbers are far greater than we predicted. They used the fog to slip past our perimeter!” he says hurriedly as the sound of battle ahead intensifies.

“Everyone, listen up!” With a huff, Catherine reaches for Thunderbrand and takes a few steps forward, ahead of Byleth and Felix. “Looks like our mission just changed. Everyone prepare for battle! Take down anyone who breaks through the fog, and let's push through.”

A silence falls over the students, their conversations quickly ending. They reach for their weapons and ready themselves as some of the Knights push forward to the front of the battalion.

“Proceed with caution! Wait for them to enter your field of view,” Catherine shouts, also moving ahead.

 _I’m not waiting for them to come to us_ , Byleth thinks to herself. She grabs two torches off the battalion’s cart, and strides ahead and hands one each to Dorothea and Annette. They each use magic to light their torches with nervous hands. Felix follows a few steps behind Byleth who keeps walking forward. She grabs Linhardt’s shoulder firmly, and looks at him. “I need you awake and ready, Lin,” she tells him. And although she borrows Dorothea’s nickname for him, her words are stern. He perks up, and she continues her path ahead, the Blue Lions’ swordsman by her side.

Byleth and Felix grip their weapons tightly, looking at each other. He nods curtly at her, and she nods back before sprinting ahead, pushing through the other students and Knights. Felix sprints after her, staying a few feet behind to cover her. They heard Catherine and a few of the others call out after them, but their pace did not slow.

They surprise a few militia, quickly and easily disarming them. As part of their plan, they agreed to refrain from killing unless absolutely necessary. They use the fog and their speed to their advantage in this, knocking weapons and soldiers to the ground with brute force or the pommel of their swords—only striking a non-critical limb with their blades if needed. 

The fog begins to thin as they approach a clearing. “There,” Byleth breathes, pointing ahead with the tip of her sword. She can see Lonato come into focus through the fog’s edge. A mage stands beside his steed with a torch in hand. Byleth and Felix slow to a jog as they approach them, blades lowered and their other hands up in the air.

“Lord Lonato, we’re not here to fight!” Byleth calls out.

The mage steps forward, though, hurling a spell in her direction. She ducks and rolls out of the spell’s trajectory as it fizzles and burns into the grass where she stood. Byleth coughs at the pillowing of black smoke, the smell leaving a burning sensation in her nose.

“Please, Lord Lonato! We only want to talk,” Byleth shouts again. She catches a glimpse of Felix in her periphery; he grimaces, holding his sword so tightly that his hand shakes. He’s about ready to rush into the mage himself, she senses. Stepping forward, she extends her hand, motioning for him to halt. He obliges with a huff.

Byleth looks on with apprehension until she sees Lord Lonato also gesture for his mage to back down. She exhales, relaxing momentarily.

“You are from the Central Church, are you not?” Lonato asks, unmoving on his horse.

“I came here with the Church, but I am not here to fight their battle,” Byleth says, continuing to pace forward cautiously.

Lonato laughs dourly. “Yet you run to me wielding a blade. I am used to the Church’s hypocrisy by now. And you… you must be the Fraldarius boy,” he says, looking at Felix. “Your father still serves the filthy Central Church, does he not?”

“I am not my father,” Felix retorts, gripping his sword tighter.

“Lonato, I know you are upset at the Church. But please, I urge you retreat or surrender! The fighting must cease—”

“I will not cease! I will not relent! I must destroy these evil-doers by any means necessary!” Lonato snarls at them.

Desperation wells up inside of Byleth as she sees the lord hold tight to his lance. “There are students from the Academy back in that fog. Children!” she raises her voice back at him. “Children who will die here today. Are they the evil-doers?”

Lonato scoffs at them and pulls on the reins of his horse. “Regrettable, but you all have been deceived by the witch who sent you here to die.”

Byleth didn’t notice the mage cast another spell until it landed square into Felix, all cinders and violet smoke. She yells over to him, rushing in his direction. She chokes again on the smell of rotten meat and sulfur as she falls down on her knees at his side. Stray pieces of his hair are stuck to the blood on his forehead; the crimson slowly gushes over his face, dripping off his brow in rivulets from the gash on his scalp.

She drops her sword.

“No, no, no, no,” she repeats to herself. She grabs the fabric of his vest and pulls him into her lap. Laying a hand on his forehead, she’s about to cast a Heal spell when she hears horse hooves approaching behind her. Craning her head, she sees Lonato with lance in hand.

“I’ll send Duke Fraldarius my condolences,” he says as he closes the gap between him and Byleth.

She reacts out of instinct, leaning down to shield Felix from the blow. She closes her eyes, takes a breath, and hears time shatter around her.

When her eyes open, she’s standing next to Felix again at the rear of the battalion. Catherine is stepping forward and shouting orders to the students, and the Knights begin to take motion. Felix draws his sword and begins to move forward as well, but Byleth stops him, her hand gripping the white fabric of his left sleeve. He looks down at her, and she appears… alarmed.

“You’re…” she whispers. Her eyes study his face intently, his forehead, his brow… and she’s visibly relieved when she finds no indication of blood or injury.

“You OK?” he asks her. Byleth lets out a small breath, and releases her hold on his sleeve. Her expression shifts back to her normal focused, battle-ready appearance—jaw set, gaze intense and unwavering. She ignores his question; she already had to use one Divine Pulse. They had to try again.

“Let’s go,” she tells him.

Felix hesitates for a blink, but then nods and follows behind her as she sprints ahead.

He notices that she moves through the fog with a particular certainty. It is difficult for one to anticipate an opponent’s movements when they cannot see them… but Felix is witnessing Byleth do just that. She even shouts at him when he was approaching an enemy on his right. It's like she can see the unseen. At first, he is amazed and in awe.

But then she buries her blade into the abdomen of a militia… one that got the jump on him and should have landed a lance between his shoulder blades… _Should_ have… She pushed on the man’s arm to remove him from her sword with a wet sound. The body crumpled to the ground before them.

It is then that he wonders… _how?_

When they are before Lonato, she makes quick work of the mage alongside him with a furious blast of white magic that he’s never seen before, not even from Mercedes. _What happened to the ‘no casualties’ that we had discussed yesterday?_ Felix thinks to himself. She shouts her plea to Lonato, but the script had changed from what they discussed, too.

 _Oh_ , he thinks. Realization dawns on him. _This isn’t her first try._

“Lonato, I have no interest in fighting you,” she calls out to him. He laughs at her in return.

Felix hears voices from the edge of the fog behind him, and quickly turns to look. Catherine pushes through the fog, Thunderbrand glowing and pulsing red, and she’s flanked by two other Knights. “Shit,” he says under his breath. Byleth hears him, and turns back to look. He looks to his professor for direction as he hears Catherine yell out—

Byleth and Felix draw their swords as Catherine pushes ahead, shouting orders at the students. “Everyone, prepare for battle!”

Felix feels a tug at his sleeve, and looks down to his professor beside him. “Change of plan. I need you to stay with Catherine,” she tells him, her volume low enough so no one else can hear. “Keep pushing west.”

“You’re going to take Lonato alone?" he asks her, louder than he intended. She shushes him with a pat on his arm, then nods in affirmation.

He frowns deeply at her plan to run into the lord without cover, but acquiesces eventually, walking over to Catherine and the other Knights. Byleth takes off toward Lonato, except this time, she finds he has no interest in exchanging words. Perhaps it is due to something she said. Perhaps it is because she is alone. Either way, she receives his lance to her sword arm, pain searing hot like an iron as the blade filets her skin and muscle down to the bone.

Time shatters again, and Byleth and Felix draw their swords as Catherine shouts orders at the students, readying them for battle. Byleth tugs at her ally’s sleeve again, more urgently this time. “Change of plan. You stay with Catherine. Head west and keep her away from Lonato,” she breathes, still feeling short of breath at the phantom pain of Lonato’s lance through her arm.

“You’re going to t—”

“No, I won’t face Lonato alone,” she cuts Felix off. She turns and scans the rest of the students ahead, her eyes settling on a familiar head of blonde hair. “I’ll go with Dimitri.”

Felix sighs hesitantly, but nods and takes off toward Catherine. Byleth also heads forward, pushing through the students until she reaches the prince. She asks him to follow her… tells him that she _needs_ him to cover her. And he agrees earnestly, sprinting behind her as they dash into the fog and toward Lonato. That is, until a stray arrow hits Dimitri in his flank. She hears him hiss in pain and turns around to head back to him. He pulls the arrow out, and tries to assure her that he’s fine… but the wheezing and his increasingly shallow breaths betray his true condition. She gently cups his cheek and cards her fingers through his hair.

_I’m sorry, Dimitri._

She uses another pulse, and a few moments later, Byleth grabs Dimitri once more from the crowd of students. Together, they rush ahead into the fog… this time reaching Lonato.

“I beg of you, Lonato. Cease this attack… save yourself and retreat,” Byleth pleads.

Dimitri also vocalizes his support of Lonato’s surrender. “Save the lives of innocent militia and students who would otherwise perish in this battle! Your fellow countrymen… your _son_ ,” he adds.

“Your Highness... I cannot stop here. For my child, and for the people of Fódlan. If you will not stand aside, then I have no choice but to cut you down.”

Time shatters again and again. Yet each time Byleth turns back… things don’t go according to plan. Either Lonato can’t be swayed, Catherine interrupts, or Byleth or one of her students gets critically injured. 

"You only have three pulses left, Byleth," Sothis tells her. She rests her small hand on her shoulder as Byleth kneels to catch her breath. Byleth glances up to see Thunderbrand swing down on Lonato. She doesn't flinch or blink. She wants to cry, but not out of sadness… Instead, tears burn at the corners of her eyes out of frustration at her repeated failures.

"You are not a failure! Stop with the self-loathing for one second and _think_ ," Sothis chastises her as time shatters around them once more. "You have three more tries. Time for a master strategy, no holds barred!"

Byleth is back next to Felix as they draw their swords. Catherine shouts at the students as the battalion prepares for battle. Three more tries…

"Felix, change of plan," she whispers to him, her throat dry. "I think we—" 

This time, it's Felix that grabs her coat sleeve.

"Byleth," he says, his voice straining to remain quiet. He tugs her toward him, his amber eyes burning with concern under his furrowed brow. His expression is so intense that it startles her into silence.

"Are you OK?" He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out an embroidered handkerchief. He leans forward and presses it to her face. She pulls away sharply, but he tugs on her arm again, pulling her back. "Stop it. You're bleeding," he hisses, using the fabric to quickly blot her nose and mouth.

She looks down and sees the bloodied handkerchief in his hand. "I'll be fine," she says, wiping more blood off her nose with the back of her hand.

"The fuck you are," Felix snaps back. "How many times?"

She looks at him blankly.

"How many times have you… gone back…" he murmurs, softer this time.

"I don't know," she lies to him.

"Goddess _damn_ it."

"We have to try something new this time, and we have to hurry," Byleth presses, anxiously looking around the fog for militia. She tries her best to look ahead at Felix, but her eyes hurt.

"I'll warp to Lonato. That way we have more time to reason with him," she explains.

"How the hell are you gonna warp there?"

She points at the dark-haired mage in the cluster of students and Knights ahead of them. "Hubert."

Felix presses his forehead into the palm of his hand in frustration. "You can't be serious, Byleth," he hisses.

"Nothing else has worked."

He looks at her for a long moment… at the little bits of blood drying and caking around her nose and the tired look in her eyes. He sighs deeply. "Alright. What do you need me to do?"

Felix takes off again toward Catherine and the other Knights moving west. Byleth seeks out Hubert and pulls him away out of earshot of Edelgard.

"Can you warp?" she asks directly.

"Yes," Hubert responds tentatively. "Why do you ask, Professor?"

With little time for explanations, Byleth practically cuts him off. "I need you to warp us over there," she demands, pointing northeast into the thick fog.

"I thought you might be aware of how magic works, but it appears as though I'll have to explain it to you," Hubert says condescendingly, clearing his throat and folding his arms. "It's difficult and dangerous for me to warp somewhere I haven't seen. And since there's all this fog, I have no idea where I'm warping to."

Byleth grabs ahold of Hubert's sleeve, far rougher than she was with Felix. "There's no time to waste. It's about 150 yards in that direction," she pushes, pointing again. "Just try."

He resists rolling his eyes. "You are persistent... Very well. Hold on," he tells her, syllables clipped. Her grip tightens on his arm as purple light engulfs them. Byleth blinks and they stumble out of the light at their destination.

They're still in the fog. _We didn't quite make it there_ , she laments. She twirls around, trying to discern their location or, at the very least, the direction to head. With only two pulses left, she cannot afford to waste this chance, even if they didn't warp perfectly.

She bumps into Hubert and grabs his arm to pull him along. "There you are! Let's head this way—"

She pauses and looks up at him.

"Hubert?"

Her eyes flicked from his shocked expression to blade that pierced through his abdomen. _Dear Goddess_. She looked around for the owner of the blade, but found no militia on the other end. Panicked, Byleth reaches for her own weapon to prepare to defend them from a stealthy enemy, but quickly realizes she is grasping at nothing. Looking down at her belt, she finds her sheath empty.

She watches Hubert's expression shift from shock to pain. His lip curls up and his piercing green eyes begin to water. Byleth finds purchase on the tall mage's shoulders to keep him upright. And then… she notices…

The blade in Hubert is her own.

He lets out a strangled cough, blood spluttering over his chin and onto his tunic. Some of it splatters into Byleth's face, warm and wet.

"S-sorry, Professor," Hubert manages.

Byleth's mind reels. Her head is throbbing now, and it feels like she can't think straight. _How did this happen? Wasn't I holding my sword when we warped? Why are all the details so fuzzy?_

"He must have inadvertently warped himself around your blade," Sothis explains, looking up at the dying mage with pity. "He did warn you, didn't he?"

Time shatters around them, Byleth unable to look at Hubert bleeding out any longer.

She tells Felix that the warp is worth one more try. And this time, she ensures her blade is sheathed before Hubert warps them. He questions the blood on her face, like a smattering of crimson freckles… but she deflects and he eventually drops the subject. _You wouldn't believe me if I told you it's your blood on my face_ , she thinks grimly as they warp away. They actually land right before Lonato, earning a heavy sigh of relief from Byleth.

This time, though, there are _three_ mages surrounding the lord.

Hubert is quick to hurl a Misama B at one of them, sending them flying backwards. Byleth grabs his arm firmly in retaliation.

"We are here to negotiate, _not_ to fight," she seethes at him.

He yanks his arm out of her grip and looks at her incredulously. "Do you—damn it, do you even know who these mages are, Professor?"

She glances over to the two other mages who were now moving toward them. Hubert steps in front of her and prepares a spell which flickers in the palm of his hand. "We can't negotiate with them," he hisses, hurling his spell at the mages who easily dodge the attack.

Byleth draws her sword as one of the mages draws near. Her blade swings down on them before magic could leave their fingertips, knocking the black bird-like mask to the ground.

 _Wait_. Byleth freezes.

"That mask…" _Haven't I seen it before?_ "Why are they here?"

"Heh, so you _do_ recognize their mask..." Hubert remarks, hurling another spell at the remaining mage and missing again. The black-masked mage fires a potent spell at him and Byleth, and the smell of sulfur and billows of hot purple smoke hits them hard. They are blown back like they are mere leaves caught in a breeze. The spell singes their uniforms. Hubert props himself up on his elbow and coughs, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.

"They're from a league of dark mages," he coughs again. He winces in pain as he reaches for Byleth. She too is coughing, struggling to get air back in her lungs through the heat of the smoke. Despite her eyes watering, she sees the mage walking toward them, another spell glowing and dancing in their hands.

"I need… to warp us out of here…" Hubert chokes out the words, finally reaching Byleth with his fingertips. "We'll die here…"

She curls her hand around his as she watches the mage's dark magic barrel towards them.

Time shatters before Hubert can attempt another warp.

"Just remember our plan, OK?" Felix tells her as they both notice the fog roll in around them.

"Forget the plan," she whispers to him, her voice cracking. She can sense him tense up next to her. "Everything has failed…"

Her eyes still ache, and her head feels like it's going to split in two. She can't tell if it's from the tears burning hot and angry at the corners of her eyes, or from the sheer amount of energy it's taking her to not collapse to the ground and sob.

Felix shifts his weight anxiously, frowning at the blood in her hair, smudged on her cheeks, fingerprints left on the hilt of her sword and the sleeves of her cloak. He understands what she means, and wonders briefly if any of the blood on her belongs to him.

“How many do you have left?”

“This is our last chance,” she whispers, unable to look him in the eye.

“Have you brought Ashe with?”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

Felix sighs, running his fingers through the stray bits of hair falling out of his hair tie. “Byleth… we have to…”

He grimaces as she flinches. He places a hand on the back of her shoulder and gently ushers her along with him as he strides ahead into the formation of their fellow students. She reluctantly follows.

Ashe is also hesitant to follow them straight to Lonato, and she doesn’t blame him. He does agree when Dimitri approaches them unprompted, offering to join. Byleth nods, knowing she will need any leverage on Lonato that she can get. She leads the way through the fog, almost like dance… graceful and effortless, it was as if she could see clearly through the mist, having repeated this same path a dozen times already.

_Dear Goddess… please keep us safe. Please help me. Goddess, please._

“I am with you, Byleth,” Sothis voice whispers like a breeze past her ear.

As the group reaches the edge of the fog, Byleth sees the dark mages… three of them, again. She grips her sword, and barrels ahead of the Blue Lions. Her legs feel numb, they are so tired and utterly spent from replaying this scenario over and over again. Yet she pushes through, her blade slicing clean through one mage while she casts Aura with her other hand to topple another mage before they could finish casting. Her momentum carries her forward to the final mage… or maybe it was adrenaline… or some other emotion that Byleth can’t quite place.

Raising her sword to it’s apex, she brings it down on the black-masked mage. He makes a strangled noise as her blade sinks into him, staining the ground red beneath them. She wipes her dripping blade on the fabric of her shorts, and she hears the others run up behind her.

Byleth has to squint at Lonato because her eyes were hurting so badly, she can hardly keep them open. She opens her mouth to speak, but words fail to come to her.

A small voice breaks the silence instead.

“Please surrender, father! Whatever your reason for doing this, we can still talk it out,” Ashe pleads. Byleth turns to him; his hands are trembling.

“Ashe, don’t be foolish,” Lonato calls out to his son, still unmoving on his horse. “Rhea is an infidel who has deceived the people and desecrated the goddess! We have virtue and the goddess herself on our side!”

“Even if that’s all true… how could you bring the townspeople into this? How you could do this to a bunch of students… my friends?” Ashe counters, stepping forward. Felix grips his sword and moves to follow him, but Byleth restrains him for the moment.

“You don’t know the truth, Ashe.”

“What is the truth, then? Tell me the truth, father!”

Lonato rears his horse and gallops ahead toward Ashe. Dimitri and Felix raise their weapons and move to guard their friend. Byleth stands back, dizzy and head throbbing. She looks behind them and sees the glow of Thunderbrand approach. 

“The truth…” Lonato shouts, an edge of laughter in his voice. Instead of stopping before Ashe, he rides past him—headed straight for Catherine.

“Perhaps this zealot will explain the _truth_ to you,” he bellows, closing the gap between him and the Knight. His lance strikes Thunderbrand, and sparks fly off the relic. Catherine parrys the blow and swings mightily back at Lonato.

Byleth pushes through the pain and dizziness and grips her sword tightly. She rushes forward, though her legs feel like lead… every muscle burning and aching. In the moment of clarity, she readies her sword…

“Byleth.”

A yank on her cloak brings her to a halt. She struggles against the force holding her back. She grits her teeth, the knuckles on her swordhand turning white.

“Byleth,” Sothis repeats her name. “What will happen if you do that?”

_I can save Lonato… I can save Ashe’s father… Just… let me…_

“Save him? He won’t retreat, Byleth. You’ve learned as much,” the goddess sighs. “Even if he surrenders now, what is his fate then? As a prisoner of the Church?”

Byleth stops struggling against Sothis’ hold. She crumples to the ground.

“You and I both know that Rhea will not allow him to live.”

_I… I… Sothis, what do I do? If I can’t save him, what must I do now?_

The goddess loosens her grip on Byleth’s cloak, and they both watch on as Catherine knocks Lonato off his horse. Byleth’s grip on her sword falters. Her eyes sting.

“Sometimes, Byleth…”

Thunderbrand pulses as it swings into Lonato’s left side, his pauldron clattering to the ground. The lord is brought to his knees.

“...you just have to let things be…”

Catherine runs a hand through her hair as she looks down at an injured Lonato. Even in these final moments, he refuses to give up. He struggles to hold onto his lance.

“Will you do it, Cassandra?” he coughs. “Will you kill me like you killed my son?”

The Knight says nothing.

Byleth winces as Ashe cries out his father’s name as Thunderbrand swings down one last time. She screws her eyes shut and desperately tries to force another Divine Pulse that just won’t come. She wants to scream and curse the heavens. She wants...

“This is something that will have to just be.”

Ashe collapses to his knees, his face buried in his hands. Sobs tremor though his slight frame. Byleth pulls herself up, and somehow her legs move one in front of the other to carry her over to him. Defeated, she stoops to kneel next to him, but falls into it instead out of sheer exhaustion. She doesn’t say anything. What is there to say?

She wraps her arms around Ashe as he cries into her shoulder. She stays like that for a long while, her own tears falling silently down her face and into his hair.

“Can you be at peace with this, Byleth?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


After is mostly a blur to Byleth—a series of vignettes on backdrop of head-splitting pain.

Healers tend to her physical wounds, but the stinging of flesh magically knitting back together doesn’t phase her, nor is it even a distraction from the _real_ pain of her headache. People come and go. She can’t get a good look at anyone as her eyes burn and leave the world out of focus; she gives up quickly at trying to look anyone in the face and just stares at a spot on the ground… silently begging the world to stop spinning.

They speak to her, she knows. Despite the pervasive ringing in her ears, she knows… because she remembers snippets of one-sided conversations here and there. Not that she can’t be bothered to respond… it’s that her throat is too dry and her teeth sting, so she elects not to speak.

“Do not hang your head, Professor. That man was not a noble, but a monster.”

“That... was my first time… killing civilians… Professor, I killed those who I am sworn to protect. Is that… truly justice?”

“C’mon, Professor. We have to get back to the monastery before nightfall. We have to talk with Lady Rhea immediately… this is serious…”

“Is there anything I can do to help, Professor? You look awfully pale.”

“Everyone was a bit shaken by the militia fighting alongside our enemies.”

A pair of red tights move into Byleth’s line of sight. She squints her eyes shut as her head pounds.

“That’s the reality of battle,” she responds dryly. “Shouldn’t we be more shaken by the fact that the _Western Church_ mages use dark magic?”

“If only everyone could face reality so unflinchingly like you, Professor,” Edelgard quips without missing a beat. “It’s disrespectful to consider them victims when they volunteered their lives for a greater purpose… for what they believed to be a just cause.”

 _She didn’t answer my question_. Byleth groans, massaging her temples with her fingers.

“Of course she didn’t answer. You challenge her so brazenly. You better be careful with what you say to her, Byleth. For your sake, I’m glad she avoided the topic…. It’s too early to start stirring up trouble,” Sothis warns.

“Still, we have no choice but to eliminate those who cling to unreasonable ideals of justice. Even if the enemies are the gods themselves… we must never lose sight of our goal,” Edelgard continues. Byleth feels dizzy from the pain.

“That’s taking it a bit far,” she says, almost slurring her words. She needs water. _Or a chance to lay down_ , she thinks. _I could sleep forever._

“Is it, Professor?” Edelgard asks condescendingly. Byleth can barely make out the blur of the princess place her hands on her hips, tilting her head in opposition. “Such a day may come, whether you expect it or not. You should be ready—”

“Don’t tell me what I should or should not do,” Byleth snaps at her, scowling at the conversation and due to the unignorable pain in her head. Edelgard’s violet eyes go wide.

“There is nothing _noble_ or _just_ about battle. It only brings death. You should pray a day like that never comes,” Byleth continues.

The princess pauses, momentarily speechless. But then she is quick to furrow her brow and argue back. “It's not possible to change the world without sacrifice. And a world without change only brings death, as well. Besides, dying for the greater good is not a death in vain,” Edelgard huffs. “Professor, I wish you w—”

“I wish you would leave her the hell alone.”

Byleth opens her eyes just enough to see a white sleeve extend before her, separating her from Edelgard. She squints against the bright afternoon sky as she looks up at messy hair and an icy glare.

“Excuse me? Can’t you see that I am talking to the Prof—” 

“Can’t you see that the Professor is hurt? Now go bother someone else.”

_Felix._

Byleth smashes her face into her palms as she hears Edelgard huff indignantly and turn on her heel to walk away. She feels the cart shift as Felix takes a seat beside her. He doesn’t say anything for several long moments, allowing a comfortable silence to fall between them. Rare, but welcomed. A chance to close her eyes. She would fall asleep if she could… if only to escape the clutches of her splitting headache for a few hours. _Or a few days._

She opens her eyes and weakly raises her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. In the field ahead, she sees figures moving… their silhouettes digging into the earth. Squinting, she recognizes a few of her students… Ferdinand… and Petra? Dimitri is with them, too, his golden hair contrasting with his somber expression.

Ashe is with them, too.

She feels like she’s trapped in the fog still… or at least her head is. She closes her eyes again for a moment to try and will her thoughts in order. Byleth opens her mouth to ask, but Felix, almost like a mind-reader, answers her unasked question.

“They’re digging a grave for Lonato,” he whispers. He crosses his arms. “The Knights wouldn’t allow them to return him back to Castle Gaspard… so this is... the best they could do.”

Byleth wishes fleetingly that the grave they were digging was for her instead. A wave of nausea hits her hard, and she vomits onto the ground before them.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Ah, you _are_ here tonight, young von Hevring.”

“A keen observation,” Linhardt yawns and turns to face the librarian. “Though who else would be here this late, Tomas? Certainly no one else would bother spending their evening free time here.”

The librarian chuckles, collecting stray books left out on the tables. “You aren’t the only student I’ve noticed forgetting to put their tomes back after late night studies… But that’s besides the point… I didn’t hear you, is all,” he explains. “I thought you may have taken a night off from your research.”

“Hmm. I cannot afford to take any more days off… my research has been... _setback_ , unfortunately,” Linhardt sighs, flipping to the page.

“Has it now?”

“Mhm… the one lead I thought I had is now gone. And I’ve turned over nearly every book in this library trying to decipher these crest symbols,” Linhardt explains, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. “How frustrating.”

Tomas looks down at the crest rubbings strewn all over the table. His face lights up as he points at one in particular. “How interesting! You know, I just recently acquired a book that depicts this same symbol. Perhaps it would be of interest to you, von Herving?”

Linhardt perks up, lifting his head from his reading. “Indeed it would.”

Tomas shuffles over to pluck a tome from the shelves. He offers it to the young mage who accepts it graciously.

“Go ahead, you shall be the first to borrow it. Just be cautious not to let Seteth see you reading that book, now.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Though quite some time had passed since the last time she shared a cup of coffee with Hubert in her previous life… she still remembers how he enjoys his coffee. Strong, black, and hot enough to scald. Simple enough to remember, and fitting to the man. And while she prefers tea, it was true what she told him a few weeks back—with enough cream and about six or seven sugar cubes, the drink is palatable enough for her.

“Why a professor?” she asks, taking a sip.

“I haven't a guess why,” Hubert responds simply. He leans back in his seat, enjoying the quiet and fresh air. The courtyard and gardens were empty at this time of day, with students either in class or in the cathedral for Church services.

“Lady Rhea won't tell me who the professor was or anything about them, even when I asked…”

“It was a long-time priest for the Church who already worked here at the monastery. It’s… curious why Lady Rhea wouldn't tell you. Didn’t want to scare you away, perhaps,” Hubert comments.

“How interesting… Edelgard never did anything to the other professors in the previous time. So what did she have against this one in particular?” Sothis ponders from her seat between the two.

“Do you think the Flame Emperor could target other professors?” Byleth asks.

Hubert laughs openly at her. “You're telling me you're afraid of some bandits, Professor? Please.” He takes a long drink of his coffee.

“I think it's a very real fear, Hubert,” she is quick to retort, folding her arms in front of her for added emphasis. “Considering that _I_ am the replacement for the fallen professor.”

“Well, like I said, you seem more than capable of defending yourself. Some of the other professors might have to worry.”

“Like whom?”

He nearly spits out his drink.

“Unless you think this is not the time or place to discuss such matters…” she adds slyly.

“Funny. I am not shy about sharing my opinion, Professor. You of all people should know this by now,” Hubert swiftly corrects her. She raises her eyebrows at him, as if to challenge him further. He sets down his cup and folds his hands on the table.

“Seteth appears more capable than he lets on…” he begins. “My bets are that he could handle himself against some bandits. Manuela is either drunk or hungover, rather unbecoming, if you ask me… Hanneman is not as _unfortunate_ as her… and while some may consider it an obsession, his knowledge about crests and magic is respectable. Shame that he wasted his knowledge by coming here to the Church…”

“What about Jeritza?” Byleth takes another sip. Sothis perks up from her seat in anticipation.

“Ah, Professor Jeritza… he's dangerously skilled. I'd bet he would fare well against a band of thieves.”

“That’s it?! Ask him for more information, Byleth!” Sothis demands.

“I saw one of his lectures the other day… he is quite skilled. Was he a knight?” Byleth asks.

Hubert traces the rim of his cup with the tip of his finger. “He was appointed the Viscount of House Hrym of the Empire… so a _noble_ … not sure about a knight. Though he is certainly fearless enough to be one.”

 _House Hrym…_ Byleth thinks back to her last interaction with Ferdinand in her previous life. _Isn’t his father, the Prime Minister of the Empire ruling Hrym?_

“You ought to spar with him some day, that is a sight that even I would like to see,” Hubert proposes, snapping Byleth out of her thoughts. She grins at his suggestion.

“You're starting to sound like Felix.”

“Heh, perhaps I am… Fraldarius is a brute whose only interest is violence. You've been spending an awful lot of time with him, Professor,” he smirks, reaching for his coffee.

“Since when is it your business who I spend time with?” Byleth shoots back heatedly. “Is this how Edelgard feels when you meddle in her business, von Vestra? Besides, we were discussing Professor Jeritza, we we not?”

Sothis sinks down in her chair at Byleth’s burst of anger, and while Hubert doesn’t flinch or react, he clears his throat and recoils his hand from his cup, letting it rest in his lap instead.

“Touche, Professor. What more would you like to know?” he asks politely.

“With such skill in combat and in governance… why isn't Jeritza leading a house?” She elects to ask directly now, her temper still hot from the mage’s earlier comments. She is used to his pointed and sarcastic remarks; it has always been his way to keep conversations in his control, as well as a means to maintain distance from others. Normally she lets them roll off her shoulders, but his latest dig crossed a line. She no longer has the patience for niceties with Hubert. For today, at least.

“Heh, good question. One to ask the archbishop the next time you see her,” he replies. “He was supposed to lead the Black Eagles… but then all that nonsense happened, with the bandits attacking and the professor fleeing like a coward.”

Sothis hums next to Byleth, looking on curiously as the conversation unfolds.

“I see,” Byleth says shortly. “Is that why you and Edelgard are hesitant about me?”

Hubert scoffs. “Hardly. I know Lady Edelgard was… disappointed… that Professor Jeritza was not assigned to our house, but she is impressed and intrigued with your skill.”

“Then what is the reason?”

“It’s as I told you before… politics. Edelgard and I have both been involved with the political landscape long enough to learn not to be so trusting of people. That others’ true intentions are often hidden at first. It's an old habit… nothing personal. That, I promise you.”

Byleth sighs and takes a sip from her cup, the coffee having gone tepid. “You trusted me enough to share a cup of coffee with me, Hubert… and your insight.”

Hubert finally reaches for his cup and drinks. A rustling of the hedges catches his attention. Byleth didn’t seem to notice as she takes another sip, closing her eyes pleasantly at the sweetness. But it was loud enough for him to notice, at least. He throws a cautious glance over Byleth’s shoulder, looking for the source of the noise.

“You're not wrong,” he acquiesces once more, his voice hushed. “But it's not that I don't trust you… it's more like I haven't figured out all your secrets yet, Professor.”

He hears the rustling again, but this time, he sees the one who’s been sneaking around. The unmistakable blue cape, the gauntlets and greaves glinting in the afternoon sun… Hubert chuckles to himself under his breath. He takes another drink of his coffee as he watches the Faergus prince pace just outside the courtyard gate, looking at him and the professor impatiently.

“I have figured out one secret, though,” Hubert adds, amused. “Not yours… _his_.”

“What is it?” Byleth asks, turning around to look where he’s pointing to. Dimitri pokes his head out from behind the gate, finally catching Byleth’s eye. A smile of relief washes over him as she gives him a small wave.

“How someone so perceptive on the battlefield can be so _oblivious_ off of it is beyond me…” Hubert sighs. “He probably has been waiting over there for us to be done for a while now. Quite sad, really. Let's clean up; it's clear the prince is eager for your attention.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh I have so much to say about this chapter...
> 
> But mostly I'm just excited about this DLC content that's about to drop in a few weeks. (Anyone else excited?!) If you couldn't tell from this chapter, I am planning on integrating the DLC content as much as I can once I play through it. Hope that's OK with everyone!
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone for reading--I'll see you in the next chapter (⌒▽⌒)☆


	4. The Empress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri is crowned. Claude partners with someone unlikely. Edelgard prays. Felix robs a grave. Byleth can’t avoid Hanneman forever. Dorothea hears a rumor.
> 
> “Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.”  
>  _-King Lear, 5.3.343_

Byleth has never been to a festival before.

So when Dimitri greets her under the gazebo and asks if she wants to join him and the other students, she obliges. Partly out of curiosity, and partly because she's missed the prince. She carries her cloak draped over her arm, in favor of the lightweight Academy uniform blouse she's taken to wearing some days. They walk down to the village below Garreg Mach, and immediately she's overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people milling about.

She looks around with wonder at the people joyously dancing, the dozens of stalls, and the waft of delicious food in the summer breeze. Byleth recognizes a few familiar faces about the sea of festival-goers. She spies Ferdinand and Leonie sparring on a grassy lawn, their bout drawing quite the crowd—Sylvain and Hilda are dancing before the band of musicians playing a lively tune. Alois is there, too, stooping down to dance with a little girl.  _ He did say he had a daughter before _ , she thinks to herself as he notices her and waves. She smiles back at him.

"Byleth! Glad you could make it!"

The little girl tugs on Alois' arm, standing close to his leg and looking up at Byleth cautiously. "Who's this, papa?" she asks in the sweetest voice.

"Oh, this is Byleth! She works with me at the monastery." He gives a gentle push on her shoulder, guiding her toward the professor. "Now say 'hi' and introduce yourself, sweetheart!"

The little girl walks over to Byleth as she kneels down to meet her. "It's nice to meet you, Byleth," she says sweetly. "My name is Verona."

Byleth feels like she can melt as Alois’ daughter steps forward and gives her a hug. "It's nice to meet you, too, Verona. You have such a lovely name!" The girl smiles wide, bashful at the compliment, and goes back to dancing with her father.

Dimitri and Byleth then explore the village street which is lined with dozens of booths—some selling grilled meats and jars of jam, others selling flowers or clothing. They run into a stand where Ignatz is selling his paintings, and neighboring is another stand where Lysithea and Mercedes are selling their homemade sweets. Dimitri buys a tart for Byleth, and after much coaxing from Mercedes, he buys one for himself, too. Lysithea doesn't allow either of them to leave until they finish eating, though.

"So, what do you think, Professor?" she asks curiously, staring up at her face as she chews. Byleth groans her praises in between bites—it truly Is delicious, unlike anything she's tasted before. It's sweet and tangy, but delightfully so. "It's a Noa fruit tart," Lysithea explains. "I'm testing a new recipe."

"It's heavenly," Byleth tells her, and Dimitri nods in agreement. Lysithea stands up a little taller, seeming to swell with pride as she thanks the two of them.

Byleth tries to convince Dimitri to join the eating contest down the way, but eventually concedes when they see Raphael and Caspar settling in at the table. Instead, they sit together and watch a theater performance taking place in the village square. He was never much for plays and performances, but Dimitri is content enough to watch her sway slightly during the chorus and laugh at all the punchlines. He finds that he appreciates when she smiles.

Flayn stops Byleth after the performance, reaching for her hand excitedly. She practically drags her over to a basket that's full to the brim with white flowers woven into wreaths. " _ Flower crowns _ ," Flayn corrects her. She hands one to Byleth who spins around to face Dimitri.

She stands on her tip-toes to reach, and plops the crown of white roses on his head. He looks down at her through a few misplaced strands of his golden hair. She beams up at him beautifully, and she gives his arm a playful pat. He thinks she said something, but his ears are burning so hot, he must not have heard her.

"Oh, how charming, Professor! It suits him well, do you agree? At the close of every Garland Moon, the people of Fódlan gift flower crowns to close friends and potential suitors! It is one of my most favorite traditions!" Flayn enthuses, clapping her hands together.

Byleth looks back at Dimitri, wide-eyed and meek. She did  _ not  _ know what the crowns signified, until now. A deep blush creeps its way onto her cheeks as she opens her mouth to say something…  _ anything _ .

Before she can speak, Dimitri takes another flower crown from Flayn and places it atop Byleth's head. The white petals in her dark hair, the freckles on her nose ever so faint from the sun…  _ It suits her more _ , he decides.

They share a laugh over the exchange and the silliness of the tradition. And while she still feels like butterflies are going to burst from her chest, and he wonders if he's smiling too much or standing too close to her… they enjoy each other’s company.

Another booth catches his eye, and Dimitri stops and pulls Byleth aside. "Knock over all the milk bottles to win!" the hawker shouts. Byleth giggles at how invested he is in the game. He doesn't even need all the throws he is allotted to topple the glass bottles. Byleth cheers; his festival game prowess rewards him with an armored bear stuffy, which he presents to her. She gives him a smile as she thanks him. Her eyes crinkle softly under dark lashes, and she looks so… happy.

_ It feels good to make her smile _ , Dimitri realizes.

On their trek back up to the monastery, Byleth sees Alois and his daughter again. This time, little Verona is tearfully hugging her father goodbye... not knowing where his next mission will take him, but knowing it will be some time before she sees him again. Byleth feels called to walk over to her; she surprises Verona with the stuffed bear.

After profuse "thank you’s" from Alois and his wife and another hug from their sweet daughter, Verona is back to smiling. As Byleth walks back to rejoin Dimitri who is waiting for her, she sees Dorothea. The brunette greets her with a hug.

"Professor! I'm glad to see you here!" she gushes, looking longingly after little Verona carrying the stuffed bear. "Isn't she just the cutest thing? I saw what you did for her, Professor. That was very kind of you."

Byleth nods.  _ It was the right thing to do _ , she thinks.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Not a day later, Lady Rhea calls for an audience of Byleth and the three house leaders. The other professors are also in attendance, including Jeritza who stands wordlessly in the back, hands clasped behind his back.

“Byleth, he’s doing the staring thing again,” Sothis whines, tugging on her sleeve.

_ I noticed… _

Byleth keeps him in the corner of her periphery as she rests her hand on the pommel of her dagger hidden amongst the fabric of her cloak. Only when Dimitri gently bumps her arm with his as he joins the rest of them in the audience chamber does she release her hold on her weapon. He offers her that soft smile of his as a greeting. Before she can smile back, Rhea addresses the group.

“First, I would like to thank Professor Manela and Professor Byleth for leading the Blue Lions and the Black Eagles into the unexpected engagement with Lord Lonato’s army. The goddess is gracious with her divine protection,” she says, bowing her head. Dimitri nudges her arm again at the mention of her name.

“That being said, I heard from Catherine that some of the students were… hesitant… about fighting militia. Please, allow me to make it clear to all of you, especially to our three house leaders,” Rhea stresses, looking at the young lords in the room. “It is our duty to punish any sinner who may inflict harm upon believers, even if those sinners are civilians.”

Byleth tenses again, looking over as Dimitri and Claude nod quickly. Edelgard simply lowers her gaze to the floor.

“Our real concern is what else Catherine reported,” Seteth chimes in. He waves a piece of worn parchment in his hands to show everyone. “The secret message that was in Lord Lonato's possession. It contains a deplorable plot to target the archbishop on the day of the Goddess's Rite of Rebirth.”

Hanneman and Manuela gasp and whisper to themselves. Edelgard and Dimitri’s both wear expressions of distaste at the news. Byleth, however, expects this. She catches Claude’s gaze—he raises an eyebrow at her, clearly intrigued by these developments. It is Jeritza to speak, though.

“A plan to assassinate the archbishop…” he says, voice low and drawn out. Everyone swivels their heads to look at the tactics professor standing with arms folded in the back of the chamber. “This monastery is nearly as heavily defended as Arianrhod. It’s unrealistic to suggest that an enemy could slip past our gates.”

_ Yet somehow, you find a way to do just that.  _ Byleth glances at Edelgard, who continues to maintain a fairly neutral expression given the topic of discussion.  _ I wonder… is it  _ you _ who lets them in here? _

“A threat is a threat. We must remain vigilant. You are correct, of course, Professor Jeritza. We have excellent defenses and the Knights will be on high alert as well…” Seteth concedes. “But there aren't enough of them to keep watch on every corner of the monastery. To that end, I would like for you all and the students from each house to assist with security on the day of the ritual.”

Jertiza scoffs. “You would potentially endanger the lives of the students and all of the believers that will flock here from all over Fódlan… instead of closing the monastery on the day of the Rite?”

Seteth opens his mouth to quip back, but Rhea hushes him with a raised hand. She steps forward. “Professor Jeritza, I appreciate your concern. The safety of our students is important, as is the The Rite of Rebirth. As you know, it is when the Church of Seiros and its believers unite to pray for the return of the goddess.... We cannot allow the threats of sinners to deter us from completing the ritual, or to allow fear to breed amongst the people on such a momentous day,” she explains gently, her voice saccharine.

“Besides, I have faith that each of you is capable enough to lead the students and protect us from any threats.” The corners of her eyes crinkle as she smiles at Jertiza. He gives her nothing in return. Seteth proceeds with the rest of the report and mission details, and afterwards, the masked professor is the first to slip out of the door.

Byleth, however, waits for the archbishop’s advisor to make way to his office. She catches his attention after he collects his things.

“Can I speak with you, Seteth?”

“About this mission? Of course, Professor,” he says. His arms are full of paperwork and a few books, so he motions to his office down the hall with a tilt of his head. She holds the door to his office open for him—he mutters his thanks, and dumps off his paperwork onto his desk.

“Well, not about this mission… the last one, actually.”

“Ah, Lord Lonato’s rebellion… very well,” he agrees, placing his hands on the back of his chair. “What would you like to discuss?”

“I noticed… there were these mages… They used magic that I have never really seen before,” Byleth feigns naivety.  _ Magic that I haven’t seen yet in this life, anyway. _

“Hmm, in what way?”

“Their magic looked different— it was smoky… purple and black. It smelled, too,” she explains, thinking of the blood congealing on Felix’s brow and the stench of burnt flesh as Hubert reaches out a mangled arm toward her. She sucks in a deep breath to keep from shuddering. “I realize I don’t know enough about magic to understand… perhaps you have a book or—”

He cuts her off before she can finish asking her question. “It… smelled? How so? Like sulfur?”

Byleth nods.

Seteth sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose in apparent irritation. He turns around to face the windows in his office, folding his arms across his chest. A beat of restive silence falls between them. “Ah. I see. This wasn’t mentioned in the report you gave me, was it?”

“No sir, I apologize,” Byleth is quick to reply. Her eyes roam over the paperwork littering his desk, spying the rolled parchment of the assassination note he held earlier in the audience chamber. “I didn’t know it— _ their magic _ , I mean—to be… out of place… when I had written it.”

Sothis is egging her on to take the note, distracting her from the conversation she is desperately trying to hold. Byleth takes a few steps forward…  _ I could reach out now and grab it while he’s not looking _ , she thinks, her fingertips tingling.

The green-haired advisor spins around and Byleth stiffens immediately. “Relax, Professor. It is fine,” he assures her. “It makes sense for you not to know given how little you know about the Church… and magic, so it seems.” He studies her a moment, one of his hands worrying at the scruff of beard on his chin.

“I wish to learn more, Seteth,” she admits. Byleth had studied magic here and there in the previous time, picking up a few useful spells along the way. And though she raised her sword against those who wielded the sulfuric magic in both her past and present… she wondered what it might be like… “Their magic was so powerful—” 

“It is not a type of magic that you should concern yourself with, Professor,” he interjects, dashing her ideas of harnessing that power for herself. “From what you describe, it sounds like those mages were using dark magic. Which doesn’t particularly surprise me that the mages of the Western Church were using such malevolent magic, given their history of insubordination and heresy.”

“Dark magic...” she repeats.

  
  


_ "They're from a league of dark mages," Hubert coughs, spittles of blood leaving his mouth. He wipes with the back of his hand, crimson staining the white bit of his uniform sleeve. _

_ "We'll die here…" _

_ "We'll die here, Professor…" _

  
  


A chill runs through Byleth at the memory.

“There are two main schools of magic—white magic and black magic. Both kinds of magic were divine knowledge gifted from the goddess herself. White magic is a selfless sort of magic, oft used for healing. Black magic is a prepotence over the elements,” Seteth explains. “But dark magic… it did not originate from the goddess… it is a  _ perversion _ of the magic that she gifted us. It is unstable and very dangerous, as you have likely gleaned from battling these mages. Dark magic is not sanctioned by the Church, for these reasons and many more.”

“Then how does one learn this magic?”

He shoots her a disapproving look, crossing his arms. “Not from the Church or any of our affiliated schools of sorcery… It is unclear who passes along the teachings of that sort of magic, but it is likely done in the shadows.”

  
  


_ She can’t breathe. Each time, her lungs fill with the hot smoke. _

_ "We'll die here…” _

_ She looks over to Hubert and sees blood trickle out of his nose and eyes… it cakes onto his eyelashes in thick clots… it flows over his bottom lip and wets the earth. It's everywhere. _

_ He reaches. His hand is stained with crimson as his fingernails claw into the dirt to drag himself over to her. _

_ "We'll die, we'll die, we'll die, we'll die." _

  
  


Byleth shakes herself from the horrifying spiral of the memory. “Hubert…” she whispers. 

“Ah, that’s right… one of your students has demonstrated an aptitude for dark magic,” Seteth sighs. “But rest assured, he did not learn it here at the monastery. Nor is it encouraged for him to practice such magic within the monastery walls.”

“Well, he’s certainly used to bending the rules, isn’t he? Using that _ dark magic  _ during the last mission... Magdred Way _ is _ outside the monastery, technically speaking,” Sothis chuckles.

_He doesn’t just bend the rules… he breaks them, too,_ Byleth thinks back. She looks up at Seteth. “But the mock battle?”

He shakes his head and his nostrils flare, not having forgotten what Byleth is referring to. “He received a warning, rest assured. Along with von Ordelia of the Golden Deer house. Continued use of such magic may lead to expulsion, but they were made aware of this  _ before  _ joining the Officers Academy. It was one of the conditions of their acceptance.”

_ Interesting. _

“Where would they have learned dark magic? Neither of them were members of the Western Church...”

“Hard to say,” Seteth shrugs. “It is possible to learn dark magic, of course, but I have also heard of people who are… predisposed with the ability. Perhaps there is a hereditary characteristic to it…”

“Like crests?”

“Precisely,” he says. “However, it is just conjecture… Several years back, the head bishop of the Southern Church led an uprising against the Adrestian Empire. The unfortunate end of that unrest was the exile of that bishop and the abolishment of the Southern Church. Since then, the influence of the Church of Seiros has waned dramatically in the Empire… Perhaps dark magic was allowed to run rampant without the presence of the Church there to prevent it.”

While Seteth paces around his office explaining the strained relationship between the Church and the Empire, Byleth redirects her attention to his desk. More specifically, the assassination note. She mirrors him silently as he moves around his office. And once she’s close enough to his desk… once his back is turned for just a second… she reaches out and snatches the parchment, tucking it into her cloak.

* * *

  
  


"I am glad that our houses get to work together again this month,” Dimitri tells Edelgard, shortening his stride to walk beside her as the three lords leave the audience chamber. The leader of the Black Eagles is less than enthused and huffs in disinterest. She’s unsure if Dimitri didn’t hear her, or if he is just simply annoyingly persistent as he speaks again.

"We should work together to develop a plan—"

"I would prefer to stick with my own house, Dimitri,” she cuts him off, crossing her arms across her chest.

This also does little to make Dimitri drop the issue. He frowns down at her, confused. "We  _ all  _ have to guard the monastery this month from the assassination. Why—"

"There's no need to state the obvious,” Edelgard interjects, her voice clipped. “My house can take care of itself. Can yours?"

"That's…” he falters into a moment of silence. “If I implied something that offended you, please, accept my apology—"

"Apology not needed. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Edelgard strides forward, leaving the prince behind. She didn’t have time to waste this month, anyway.  _ Or time to waste at all _ , she thinks darkly.  _ Since when do houses share missions?  _ That’s not why she joined the Academy. The entire lineage of Hresvelg emperors did not attend the Academy to play house or practice diplomacy—they attended to learn how to fight and rule. And Edelgard was no exception.

"Huh, everything's a competition for you?"

She looks up from her thoughts and sees a tanned face grinning down at her. With a sigh, she closes her eyes and rubs her brow with a gloved hand. 

"I believe my house is able to handle a mission alone… and you call it competition, Claude? Please...” she tells him, shaking her head. “I just have no patience for his short-sightedness. My sole interest lies in fulfilling our mission, no matter what it might take. Trying to get everyone on board will just slow us down… something you should be quite familiar with, coming from the Alliance."

Claude laughs in agreement. "You're not wrong, Princess. Though, I intend on taking the Deer on an  _ auxiliary _ mission. So I'll leave you and Dimitri to squabble over the actual mission," he tells her with a playful pat on her back. She recoils from his touch and scowls at him.

"You know I can't let that pass without comment… what are you planning?"

"Caught your interest, have I?" Claude teases, raising an eyebrow for added drama. Edelgard rolls her eyes and increases her pace. He is quick to mutter apologies as he catches back up with her. "Hey, hey, I’m sorry. Don't be impatient, now… Truth is, there's just no way I can believe that an assassination is going to happen. I mean, who leaves a note like that to  _ deliberately _ be found?"

After a beat of silence and consideration, Edelgard offers the leader of the Golden Deer a tilt of her head to indicate her accord. “You’re smarter than I give you credit, Claude. Interestingly enough, those were my thoughts exactly."

"Great minds think alike, huh?"

"Something else is likely the target,  _ not _ the archbishop,” she adds vaguely, her voice hushed.

"Care to join forces and go all-in on that theory? Or will I be the second guy you turn down today?"

Edelgard doesn’t respond immediately again, crossing her arms in thought as the pair strolls into the dining hall. _ He came to the conclusion on his own _ , she thinks.  _ If I don’t work with him now, they’ll just be an added hindrance. _ The princess sighs.

"Very well. It appears we're aligned. Just as long as the Blue Lions aren't in our way…"

They both grab plates and step into the line to be served lunch. Claude shoots her a surprised look. "You really have it in for him, don't ya? I know Dimitri's stubborn and all, but sheesh." He smiles and thanks the dining hall staff who hands him back his plate, now filled with food.

"Well, perhaps you aren't wrong about being… competitive,” Edelgard suggests as she receives her plate, too. “Are you  _ really _ against a little friendly house rivalry?"

  
  
  


* * *

Wind billows across the field, sweeping up the gleanings that remained. Byleth suppresses a shiver, pulling her cloak tighter around her. The air is biting as the sun hides away behind the grey cast of early winter. Frost kisses the barren tree branches, the plowed fields, and the paling grass.

As Byleth approaches the perimeter of the field, she hears another set of footsteps crunching through the half-frozen stalks behind her. Quicker, lighter… Turning around, she finds they belong to a young girl. She’s alone, eyes downcast.

“Hey there, are you okay?” Byleth asks.

The girl doesn’t raise her head to look at her. “My papa told me I shouldn’t talk to strangers,” she states simply as she keeps walking.

After standing dumbly for a moment, Byleth steps toward the girl and places a gentle hand on her shoulder. The girl pulls away from her touch, but comes to a stop.

“I-I…” she sniffles. Byleth places her hand carefully back on the girl’s shoulder to soothe her. She doesn't flinch this time. “I’m… I’m lost, m-miss. C-can you please help me?”

The child looks up to Byleth expectantly with wide eyes and trembling lips. Her cheeks are wet with tears, and Byleth notices she’s underdressed for the season. But then again, so is she. Byleth’s cloak was no warmer than the knits the girl wore… and if she offered the cloak to her, Byleth would only be left wearing a blouse of thin material with sleeves that didn’t cover her arms.

The girl trembles at the cold, her knuckles red and chapped as she holds tightly to a scarf.  _ Best to get us both inside by a fire as soon as possible. _ Byleth kneels down to face the child.

“Of course,” she tells the child. “How about we get you home?” The girl wipes her dripping nose with the back of her hand and gives Byleth a shaky nod.

“Great,” Byleth tells her with a gentle smile. “Now, where’s home?”

The child points a finger off in the distance. Byleth looks over her shoulder in that direction. Beyond the forest was a village, if she remembered correctly… Perhaps a two hours’ walk from here, she supposes. With a frigid breeze and a glance at the waning daylight, she knows the wolves will start howling soon.  _ We’ll have to move fast to make it there before nightfall _ , she thinks.

Byleth stands up and offers her hand to the girl. She hesitates at first, but reaches out and curls her small hand around Byleth’s. The child walks closely to her as they head toward the village.

“I miss my friends,” she tells Byleth. “I miss my brothers and sisters.” Shadows from the pine trees and crooked branches of trees long laid bare from the autumn danced across her face. “I’ll get to see them soon... right, miss?”

Tilting her head down at the child, Byleth offers a reassuring smile. “Of course, you’ll be home in no time.”

The girl sighs in relief. She looks up at Byleth, her eyes impossibly wide and twinkling like stars. “It’s been so long since I’ve been home,” she tells her longingly. Byleth smiles to herself; she recognizes the glint in the child’s eyes.

When she awoke in the river in her past life, she had the same look in her eyes, the same feeling of hope that bloomed in her chest as she trekked up the mountainside. The same feeling when her father and the three lords entered the monastery grounds in this life… the yearning for the familiar comfort and belonging of home.

The child opens up more to Byleth the longer they walk together through the woods. She tells her about her friends and siblings; she knows all of their favorite colors and favorite animals, too. Her favorite animal is a pegasus, she tells Byleth excitedly.

After a while, the girl falls quiet. She stares at the ground ahead of them as they walk through the the darkening forest.

“Do you think they miss me?” she breaks the silence with the smallest voice.

Byleth is caught off-guard by the child’s question. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think they miss me? Did they… know I was gone?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ Another dream _ , Byleth thinks. She shivers;  _ no blanket _ … she must have tossed it off the bed in her sleep.

Sothis is curled up in her usual spot, snoring lightly. Byleth quietly paces across her room to slip into her jacket and her boots, careful to not wake her. She pushes open her door and steps outside. Taking a deep breath of the fragrant evening air helps to ground her after her confusing dream.

A few of the stray cats skitter away when Byleth heaves open one of the cathedral doors. Moonlight filters through the stained glass, reflecting off the gilded altar and emblems adorning the columns. The nave is eerily quiet, save for the sounds of her boots on the marble… and empty, except for a figure sitting unaccompanied in one of the front pews.

“Edelgard?”

“Professor!” she gasps, turning suddenly to face Byleth. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same. It’s late.”

“Ah, well. I can’t find sleep tonight. And neither can you, I assume?”

Byleth hums in agreement, wrapping her jacket tighter around her. The princess’ snowy hair seems to glitter in the beams of moonlight as refracted shapes of red, green, and blue dance across her pale skin. Edelgard extends a hand, inviting Byleth to sit beside her in the pew. She obliges, scooting in next to her student.

“You know, I’ve had nightmares since I was a child. And I never seem to grow out of them,” Edelgard tells her.

“You had one tonight?”

She nods once, then hangs her head and clenches the fabric of her night dress in her fists. “Terrible, stupid dreams…”

“Do you want to talk about them?” Byleth whispers. “You can trust me… with anything.”

Edelgard laughs softly. Perhaps I wasn’t convincing enough, Byleth thinks to herself. The princess turns her head to face Byleth—her eyes are red and weary, her under eyes look even more blue and sunken in the dim light. “Do I really come off as that untrusting? I apologize for that, my teacher. I suppose… I could try…” she trails off, staring ahead blankly for a beat.

“I won’t share what we talk about. Not a soul,” Byleth promises her half-heartedly, despite sounding sincere.  _ It’s a promise I’m willing to break. _

“I… That means a lot to me, Professor.”

Byleth tilts her head and offers a weak smile, encouraging Edelgard to share the nightmares that plague her… the nightmares that bring her to the deserted cathedral in the middle of the night.

“I dream of my brother, Professor… paralyzed and lying helpless in his own filth. My sister… her  _ screams _ ,” Edelgard winces. “They are so loud, I can hear them even now. The sounds of her flesh ripping apart. The babbling of my youngest brother…  _ my baby brother _ … His words have no rhyme or reason; all he can speak is nonsense. He can’t hear me.  _ No one _ can hear me.”

She takes a breath to compose herself.

“I have to keep suffering though that nightmare… reliving it night after night…” She touches her eyes gently with a shaky hand. “I once had ten siblings, eight older and two younger. Such a large family, and yet  _ I _ became the heir to the throne. Do you know why? Every last one of them was crippled by disease or lost their mind or died. I was the only one left who _ could  _ inherit the throne.”

“I… I don’t know what to say…” 

There’s truth to Byleth’s words. Despite this being the second time she’s listened to Edelgard tell the tale of her siblings, it rattles her nonetheless. However, the last time she recounted her nightmares to Byleth, it was in her quarters. This time, they’re sitting on pews in the cathedral which is stuffy from being closed up for the night… the cool breeze of a summer night unable to offer any relief.

This time, there’s tears.

“I’ve prayed for them to stop. I’ve prayed to the goddess… to the Saints… to  _ Saint Seiros  _ for years,” Edelgard whispers, her voice thick with emotion. Byleth sees a tear roll down her cheek. “I was  _ blessed _ enough to be born with a crest… with _ her  _ crest. And although I pray to her, she and the goddess have turned their backs on me… on my family... on the Empire.”

Byleth studies the tracks of tears that streak the princess’ face. After waiting and watching for her mask to slip or crack, even just the tiniest bit… she’s stunned as she witnesses the mask fall completely. It makes Byleth feel uncomfortable, seeing tears fall to the marble floor as Edelgard wrings her hands in the fabric of her night dress, distraught.

She wonders fleetingly if  _ this _ is a dream.  _ Is it?  _ A dream where the cruelty, hubris, and deceit of Edelgard evaporate… leaving behind the vulnerable human underneath the mask.

“I started to doubt that the goddess existed. But she is real. She must be,” Edelgard avows, her eyes blinking away the tears to look solemnly at Byleth. “She has blessed you with your gifts of magic. How else could you perform such feats without ever knowing of the Church… without study or practice?"

Byleth freezes.  _ She saw. _

"I-I don't know. Perhaps it's… my crest…" Byleth stammers.

"Heh, quite possibly. Crests…  _ gifts from the goddess _ , they call them. Power incarnate,” Edelgard trails off, looking up at the figures of the Saints in the stained glass. “What crest do you bear?"

"I don't know,” Byleth lies. Edelgard laughs darkly.

"She smiles down on someone like  _ you _ … someone who’s lived their whole life without knowing of or acknowledging her… without even knowing of the crest—the power they bear.” She shakes her head and sniffles. “Yet she casts me away… one who  _ begged  _ for her mercy.”

“I’m sorry, Edelgard.”

“It’s alright, my teacher. I’m sure you’ve come here with your own troubles. And here I am, sharing… perhaps more than I intended,” she laments as she smooths out the fabric of her night dress. Edelgard easily slips back behind her mask as she blots any remaining dampness from her cheeks.

“No, it's fine. I’m just sorry that… I wish things would have been different,” Byleth says. She blinks, realizing she means it.

“I wish that, too, Professor. But wishes and prayers do nothing,” she responds intently. “I was the only one who survived. My future, the future of the Empire...of  _ everything _ ...depends on me.”

A beat of silence falls between them.

“So those terrible things never happen again?”

“Yes,” Edelgard says. She stands to make her leave. “Yes, my teacher. Let us pray for that tonight. Perhaps the goddess will hear  _ you _ .”

  
  


* * *

While her sickness had passed, Byleth still feels guilt over last month’s mission. Everyone around her dubs it a success— _ justice delivered to the heretics _ , they say—but to her, it was a massive failure. A failure that trickles over into the weeks following, causing nausea for Byleth long after the mission’s end.

Perhaps if she hadn’t killed the militia, like she swore to Felix that she wouldn’t… Perhaps if she hadn’t wasted divine pulses on dangerous warps for Hubert…If she had slipped away out of the battalion instead and gotten to Lonato sooner… If she could have convinced him to retreat, to turn around on his horse and leave… 

There would be no assassination note. There would be no trouble on the day of the Rite, wouldn’t there? And there would still be Lonato… alive. Ashe wouldn’t have to cry. And perhaps Byleth wouldn’t have to, either.

_ If two people call each other heretics, where does the heresy lie? _ Byleth wonders. She thinks about it often… about what Lonato said at the very end. She saw Catherine’s report from that day, and she did not mention it. Byleth wants to ask Seteth, but Felix convinces her not to. She would ask Catherine herself to shed some light on the missing pieces from her past, but she is difficult to find around the monastery.

She wanted to give Ashe his father in this life. But since she couldn’t, the least she can do is give him answers to his questions.  _ But what can you give someone when you have no answers at all? _

She tries to talk to him in the weeks following that day. Each time, he quickly excuses himself as tears burn in his eyes. Byleth never blames him, though. She understands. And when the time comes that he does pause to hold a conversation, she finds herself stumbling over her words.

“I understand,” she tells him. “I’m sorry,” she tells him. He grows visibly distressed and upset at the topic of conversation.

"I'm sorry, Professor, but you don't know what it's like to lose your father twice,” Ashe tells her as tears begin to trail down his freckled face.

Byleth stands there, completely beside herself.

"That… t-that came out… I'm sorry, Professor. I'm not in a place to talk. I'm going to go now.” Ashe walks away, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaving Byleth to stand speechless. After a moment, she turns to rest her forearms on the stone parapet overlooking the cathedral bridge.

Her lip trembles and she winces as she tries in vain to stave off her own tears. Though the summer sun is warm on her face, she can vividly remember the chill of freezing rain soaking into her skin that day… and the soft snowflakes landing delicately on her face as she stood in the cemetery at her father’s grave afterward.

She can’t decide what is more painful—the resurfacing memories of her father’s death… or that she failed to prevent Ashe from experiencing the same grief.

"Were you crying, Professor?"

She pushes away from the parapet to face Dimitri. Flustered, she blots her face with the edge of her sleeve. "I'm sorry, that was perhaps too forward. I did not mean to make you self conscious. Or to assume anything…" he continues.

"It's alright, Dimitri. I'm fine. It’s just... the wind today is making my eyes water,” she deflects.

"Ah, it is rather blustery. I am thankful the Blue Lions aren't on sky watch duty today,” he says, his hands clasped behind his back. He studies her face, and she looks… unsure. "I don't mean to be presumptuous again, Professor. But I noticed you were talking to Ashe. Is everything okay?"

"It's hard to imagine that it can be okay, after losing a parent." She folds her arms and turns to overlook the monastery again. She doesn’t want him to see her cry again, and she’s fearful she might start.

"That is true,” Dimitri sighs. He walks over and stands next to her, gloves and gauntlets resting on the stone as he looks up at the clouds drifting across the blue sky. “When I lost my parents, I felt the same as Ashe does now. Everyone wanted to apologize to me, and I still can never understand why. Not that ‘sorry’ wasn't good enough, but that it was just… not what I needed to hear, I suppose."

"I didn't know about your parents, Dimitri. I…" Byleth says to him.  _ You haven’t shared that with me yet in this life, _ she means.

"It's alright, Professor. I am at peace with it. It took time, as it will for Ashe." He down at her, at the tears threatening to spill from her glassy eyes. It hurts him to see her upset. He knows intimately what she’s feeling—it’s odd seeing it written all over her face when she is normally so stoic. It’s like gazing into a mirror.

He gently touches her forearm with his hand, and her head swivels to look at it.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that you shouldn't feel the need to apologize for Lord Lonato's death. It wasn't your fault, and Ashe knows that. So why apologize?"

"It wasn't my fault…" she murmurs, her lip trembling again.

"It wasn't, Professor. There's nothing you could have done to stop it."

She looks up at Dimitri, then. The wetness from her tears dries on her face in the breeze as she studies the piercing blue of his eyes. He had said to her once that she always had all the answers… but this time, she didn’t. "Then what do I say to him?" 

"Tell him that all of us are here to support him. You, me, the rest of the Academy. That’s what he needs to hear right now—that he’s not alone in this," he tells her.

Byleth smiles sadly at him for a moment before breaking eye contact. "He is lucky to be in your house, Dimitri. To be under your care."

_ Better than my care… Only terrible things happen to him under my care _ , she thinks to herself.

"You flatter me, Professor,” he laughs. “But it is I who is the lucky one. To have Ashe as a friend and a future knight for the Kingdom. Faergus is made better with him a part of it."

Dimitri looks down and realizes his hand is still resting on her forearm. She hasn’t protested, nor has she made an attempt to move away, he realizes. Regardless, his neck flushes and he quickly retracts his hand. He clears his throat.

“I know the timing is horribly inappropriate, Professor, but I was hoping to ask you…" he trails off, wringing his hands together. 

"Ask me what?"

"To ask…” He coughs into his hand again. “I was going to ask if you'd care to enjoy a cup of tea with me sometime.”

She blinks up at him.

“Or coffee, if that's what you prefer,” he adds quickly. Dimitri scratches the back of his head; a nervous habit of his. This doesn’t slip by Byleth, and neither does the laughter from Sothis.

“Are you referring to Hubert and I in the courtyard the other day?” she asks pointedly. His face flushes and he stammers again.

“Yes, I don’t want to assume any—”

“There’s nothing to assume, Dimitri.”

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, good. I mean—I’ve been wanting to ask you… but that day, I just assumed he beat me to it,” he says, relieved and nearly stumbling over his words from speaking so fast. 

Byleth feels her cheeks warm at the sight of the anxious prince.  _ He always talks too much when he’s nervous. It’s… endearing.  _ “We had coffee as we discussed our mission. Nothing special,” she assures him.

He swallows and nods.

“I would love to have tea with you, Dimitri. I enjoy our conversations.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


“Why is  _ she _ here?"

Hubert crosses his arms as he takes a seat at the library table next to Edelgard. He, like the princess, is not particularly fond of this agreement to begin with. A necessary evil, perhaps—something he is quite familiar with. But Hilda pulling up a chair really just strikes his last nerve.

"C'mon Hubert, you and I both know she's more dangerous than she looks—we should probably keep her on our good side, yeah?" Claude jests.

"Besides," Hilda sings, "I have information you need."

Hubert laughs darkly. "Our plan for this month's mission is simple; what  _ information _ could you possibly—"

"Hubert," Edelgard cuts him off. "Please, let her speak."

The dark-haired mage grumbles in his seat, but obliges nonetheless.

"So, Claude told me that we're trying to find what the Western Church guys are  _ really _ going to be up to that day," Hilda starts, twirling a lock of her pink hair around her finger. "One of the Knights was telling me about some strange things happening around the monastery lately."

"Hah, which Knight exactly were you talking to, Hilda?" Claude wiggles his eyebrows at her.

"Oh shush," she gasps dramatically, smacking his shoulder. "I was only  _ talking _ to this one. Don't you know a lady never tells?"

" _ Talking _ ... right, right," Claude says with a playful roll of his eyes.

Across the table, Edelgard is slowly losing her patience. "Can we get back on topic? What sort of strange things have the Knights been noticing?" she asks.

Hilda's brows shoot up as she leans forward earnestly. "Stuff about some super shady people coming and going late at night. It's been happening more and more as of late... and the crazy thing is they've chased a couple of bandits out from  _ under _ the monastery."

"Under the monastery?" Hubert asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yeah, like from the dungeons and stuff underground. Which is why," she says, flipping a pigtail over her shoulder, "I think the Western Church is going to do something in the Holy Mausoleum on the day of the Rite."

Edelgard looks dumbfounded for a moment, then clasps her hands on the table.

"That would make sense," she says after a beat, her voice measured. "The Mausoleum is underground, and only on the day of the Rite is it open." She glances sideways at Hubert, who notices and chimes in.

"Lady Edelgard is correct. Though the the fact that it is closed isn't much to deter Western Church from entering before the Rite... and from what Hilda said, they likely have already been in the underground tombs. Perhaps they are planning something," he suggests.

Hilda slumps into her chair. "How are we gonna catch them if the Knights can't?"

"Well, I wouldn't suggest that we try to break into the Holy Mausoleum. If we get caught, I'm not explaining that one to Seteth... and  _ certainly _ not to Lord Goneril," Claude says. His retainer shrugs, nodding her head in agreement.

"C'mon, princess... I can practically hear you thinking. What should we do? Since we're teaming up on this mission, afterall."

Edelgard sits quietly, considering their options.... as well as  _ her _ options. She agrees with Claude—breaking into the Mausoleum to interfere with the Western Church's conspiracy would be a poor move for her, as well as for any of her future allies in the Officers Academy. More importantly is the matter of who is going in and out of the monastery late at night...  _ They shouldn't have reason to go to the Mausoleum early _ , she thinks to herself.  _ What reason do they have to meddle down there pre-maturely? Unless it  _ isn't _ them… _ She furrows her brow, and pushes that matter aside to discuss with Hubert after their meeting with the Golden Deer adjourns.

"Claude is right, we should not attempt to enter the Mausoleum. It's neither safe, nor wise. On the day of the Rite, let's all meet down there as soon as it's open to the public. If we're correct, the conspirators will meet us there," she says decidedly.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Felix trips on a loose stone and stumbles forward, his sword clattering to the ground. The metallic noise echoes throughout the expansive underground tomb.

“If we get caught, I'll get expelled and you'll be executed," he grumbles. He bends down to pick up his weapon with a huff, deciding to sheath it despite his ‘swing first, ask questions later’ mentality.

“Cheer up a little, I'll pulse back if anything goes wrong," Byleth reassures him as they continue their descent down.

_ Well, let's hope it doesn’t come to that, _ he thinks. The last thing Felix needs is a mess to clean up. He remembers the last time she pulsed back... she was sick for two days.

Seteth had to teach her seminar in her stead, which was terribly boring for everyone subjected to it. Byleth complained to him about how the blood stains wouldn't come out of the white Academy shirts. "Don't wear those shirts then," he remembers telling her—yet she  _ still  _ wears them.  _ How annoying. _

Worst of all was that Felix couldn't spar with her those days. He was stuck sparring with Dimitri, of all people. So in his mind, Byleth jumping back is to be avoided at all costs. For her sanity, yes. But also his. It would be a bother to keep dealing with a sick sparring partner and professor who complains more than rests, afterall.

Once they reach the foot of the stone staircase, Byleth lights a second torch with her own and hands it to Felix. The place is huge—in the dark, their torches only illuminate a fraction of the expanse of the Mausoleum.

They split up and start investigating.

Byleth told him everything that night—about the things that happened down in the Mausoleum, about what happened afterwards and inbetween... about all the things that still remain unknown. The tales made his head spin, but he insisted that she tell him the whole story in one go. It took him a long while to process everything, afterwards—it's easy to imagine characters and scenes from a book that is read to you as a child. Ironically, it's much harder to imagine those things when the characters are _ you  _ and  _ your friends _ , Felix learns.

One of the ‘unknowns’ is the Mausoleum itself; Byleth told him that the Sword of the Creator—a relic of legends—was in Saint Seiros’ grave. The thieves of the Western Church, who are due to arrive during the Rite of Rebirth at the end of this moon, attempt to steal it. And later, Edelgard shows up to confiscate things called 'crest stones' from all of the other caskets. Whatever mysterious things, crest stones or otherwise, are stowed in the Mausoleum, Felix and Byleth are going to find them tonight.

They walk down the rows of caskets—all of them covered in a thick layer of dust from nearly a full year of being untouched. "What are _ these _ graves?" Byleth asks, holding her torch out to inspect closer. "Some of them don't have tombstones, either. This is... strange."

"The ones with tombstones are the 10 Elites, my brother told me once. They are said to rest here with the Saints they fought alongside. See, look at their crests," Felix explains, pointing to the Gautier crest carved into one of the tombstones before him.

"That makes sense... who do the other graves belong to, then? They're unmarked."

Felix shrugs.

"Huh, it's my crest," he remarks, brushing the dust off the top of the tombstone with his crest etched into the stone. "I used to rush over to look at it when I was a kid, each time we came here on the day of the Rite. Thought it was the most exciting thing…  _ how morbid _ . I don't know how I'd feel about looking at the bones of my own ancestor, though."

Byleth snorts. "You don't strike me as someone who believes in superstition, Felix."

"Well, I'm not taking any chances."

He thinks briefly about opening the casket of the Gautier grave, but the thought of seeing the bones of his childhood friend's great-something grandfather didn't sit well with him, either. He paces over to a tombstone with a crest he doesn't recognize.  _ I don't remember this crest from the history books _ , he muses. He remembers what Byleth told him about Linhardt and his silly crest research into 'undiscovered crests' or 'crests lost to history.' And while he doesn't pretend to understand or care about the sleepy mage's research... it's enough plausible information for him to not feel weird about snooping around the graves of his classmates’ long-dead relatives. He slides the lid of the casket open and peeks inside.

"Why is it... empty?" he says, momentarily dumbstruck. "What... is  _ this _ ?"

He pulls out fist-sized stone from the casket, which is otherwise empty. No remains, no bones...  _ nothing except for a rock? _ He looks at it curiously, and notices it is marked with the same unfamiliar crest that is engraved into the tombstone. "I found a crest stone... I guess? It just looks like a rock with a carving on it."

"This one is empty, too!" Byleth calls over to Felix. "It's Saint Cichol's grave... but I don't see any stones in here..."

"Why are they empty? I thought the Saints and the Elites were buried down here," he grunts as he slides the stone lid of the casket closed. Slipping the crest stone into his pocket, Felix has an odd feeling... but he brushes it off for another time.

Byleth makes way to the far end of the Mausoleum, straight to Saint Seiros’ casket. She wants to secure the sword to ensure that it ends up in her hands, but Felix quickly convinces her otherwise. "How're you going to explain the sword to Rhea, then?" he challenges. Byleth doesn’t protest.

She puts all of her weight into pushing the lid of the Serios' casket open, and lowers her torch to look inside.

"Uh, Felix... how do we explain that the sword _ isn't  _ here?"

He turns to look at her. "What do you mean it's  _ not there _ ?"

The sound of a creaking wooden door opening startles both of them.

“Shit, someone’s headed down here,” Felix whispers, rushing up the steps next to Byleth. He helps her replace the lid of the casket as quickly and quietly as possible. She uses magic to extinguish their torches, and they hurry to crouch down behind one of the caskets at the far back. They look on as the glow of torchlight moves out of the corridor at the front of the Mausoleum.

The scent of lillies hits Felix like the pommel of a sword to the chest; he stifles a cough at the strong fragrance. Though squinting in the dark, he sees Byleth’s eyes widen at the Mausoleum’s late night visitor.

“Rhea,” she breathes.

They curiously peek over the top of the unmarked casket at the archbishop and her flowing embroidered robes and golden headpiece still atop her head, despite the late night hour. It glitters in the flame of her torch, which she places delicately in a sconce. She climbs the steps to stand before Saint Seiros’ grave; she bows her head and folds her hands in prayer.

“Mother, I pray to you for guidance and strength,” Rhea murmurs, her voice echoing about the stone tomb. “I… I do not have a friend whom I can fully trust. Such is the burden of my position, I suppose. Please guide me, Mother. You are the only one I can talk to as  _ myself _ , rather than as an Archbishop…”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Byleth can’t quite avoid Hanneman’s persistent questions about her crest. In her previous life, he analyzed her crest within her first week at the monastery. In this life, she’s managed to go several weeks without going near his crest analyzer.

It’s not that she feels ill toward him—Hanneman is a kind and interesting man. Quirky, yes. But passionate about his research nonetheless. It also isn’t because Byleth has anything to hide about her crest—until she gets her hands on the Sword of the Creator in a few days, no one can possibly put two and two together to realize she has the Crest of Flames.

“Are you sure about that?” Sothis asks her. “I have a sneaking suspicion that Rhea always knew you could wield that thing.”

_ That could be… but Catherine also has a knack for guessing someone’s crest just by looking at them, remember? _

“Hmm, I think there’s more to Rhea than a lucky guess,” the goddess mutters under her breath.

Even so, the real reason why Byleth avoids the crest scholar’s office is because she has been so busy doing her  _ own _ research. Seeking answers and allies, she devotes all of her time outside of teaching, missions, and mentoring her students to learning about the Church and the history and politics of Fódlan from Seteth and his books… as well as from Linhardt and the forbidden tomes that he seems to acquire from Tomas on a fairly regular basis.

“ _ Solon _ , you mean,” the goddess is quick to correct.

Hanneman is resolute in requesting her to present to his crest analyzer, though. Each time they cross paths around the monastery, he asks. At each staff meeting, he always flags her down when it adjourns. Seteth looks amused each time, and Byleth only knows from past experience that it’s due to relief that he gets a rare break from Hanneman pressing him about his own crest.

And when it isn’t Hanneman himself asking, it’s one of the students. At the end of lectures… in the middle of sparring in the training grounds… before choir practice each weekend… It’s inevitable that someone passes along his message to Byleth.

Today, Byleth is enjoying a meal in the dining hall with Edelgard and Hubert when her summons arrives. Lorenz’s shock of purple hair appears out of nowhere, it seems, as he greets her and just  _ mentions _ that Hanneman would like to see her in his office.

Today, Byleth would have declined like any other day if it isn’t for Edelgard offering to accompany her to the crest scholar.

She blinks for a moment at the house leader’s offer, but feels called to accept it. It is an… oddly reassuring thought to have someone else with her. But moreso, Byleth is incredibly curious about what Edelgard’s reaction will be to seeing her crest before it is revealed to all in a few days. While Hanneman would not recognize it,  _ she _ indeed  _ would _ .

Hubert was noticeably less reluctant to let Edelgard venture off without him this time—only protesting once before acquiescing to the princess.  _ Glad we’ve been able to build  _ some  _ trust between us, von Vestra. _

Once in Hanneman’s office, Byleth sticks her arm out over the crest analyzer as Edelgard watches from afar as she stands, arms folded by one of his ceiling-high bookcases. A cross-section of the Crest of Flames illuminates above the analyzer, purple and glowing.

Byleth’s gaze flicks from Hanneman, who is regarding the crest curiously, to Edelgard. Her gaze is also fixated on the the projection of Byleth’s crest, her eyes intently focused and her lips pressed in a thin line.  _ Ah, her mask won’t slip today. _

Hanneman ponders aloud about Byleth’s mysterious crest and scribbles a rudimentary sketch of it for his notes. The two ladies excuse themselves from his office, and Hanneman returns to his research.

“I’ve never seen that crest before, Professor. I have to agree with Professor Hanneman… how fascinating,” Edelgard laughs and lies to Byleth as they walk back to the Black Eagles’ classroom.

“I don’t know much about crests,” Byleth admits…  _ not entirely a lie _ . “For something that’s so important, I can’t believe there are crests that haven’t been discovered yet.”

“That is interesting to think about,” Edelgard trails off. “Professor, are you glad that you’ve finally learned about your crest? I mean, to have a crest and live your entire life without knowing of it… that is something unheard of as well.”

Byleth hums, looking down at the ground as they walk.

“I am glad, I guess. I’m happy to learn more,” she deadpans. Then an idea comes to Byleth and her eyes widen. “Edelgard… why didn’t you try the crest analyzer?”

She can hear Sothis giggling in the background. Edelgard, however, doesn’t miss a beat.

“I already know what my crest is,” she explains cooly, raising her hand to magically project her crest in the air before them. “I bear a Minor Crest of Seiros. My father, the emperor, bears the same crest. As did his father before him, and his father, too. All of the Hresvelg emperors have born the Crest of Seiros back to the dawn of the Empire.”

“It runs in your family,” she observes with a nod.

“Correct. Say, doesn’t your father also bear the Crest of Seiros?”

Byleth turns to look at her blankly.  _ Does he have a crest? _ She racks her brain, but fails to remember any mention he made of a crest. Then, she thinks back to her and Edelgard’s talk in the cathedral several nights ago.

“Does that mean you and my father are both descendants of Saint Serios?” she asks instead.

“Heh, I guess you could say that,” Edelgard replies. “Why you don’t share your father’s crest is… interesting, for lack of a better word. Unless your mother had a different crest?”

Byleth shakes her head. “I… I don’t know much of anything about my mother. She died when I was born.”

The princess grows quiet for a moment and clasps her hands before her, looking at them thoughtfully. “I am sorry to hear that, Professor,” she says quietly, gently. “I couldn’t imagine not knowing my mother.”

Byleth looks over and sees the slightest hint of longing in her violet eyes, peeking out from behind the mask.

“Thank you, Professor, for sharing that with me. And for sharing your crest with me,” Edelgard says vehemently, folding her hand against her chest and bowing slightly.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It  _ sings _ in her hand, the Sword of the Creator.

The blade is like an extension of herself—glowing and warm under her fingers. The few months without the Sword feel like a lifetime ago now, a few days ago when the Sword was missing from the casket only a distant memory now; it’s as if holding the weapon again in her grasp gives her life purpose and drive. A singular focus, a complete transformation of being. If she had a heart, Byleth thinks it would be racing in this moment—a rush of exhilaration, of connectedness, of  _ power _ .

That day, everything happens so quickly after the events in the Holy Tomb. The last of the mysterious dark mages are apprehended. Rhea lets her keep the Sword of the Creator, and Seteth protests just like in her past life. Hanneman determines that she has the Crest of Flames due to her compatibility with the Sword, and that becomes all the monastery can talk about.

Everyone looks at her strangely now—gawking, gossiping. Her own students, even. Byleth feels like a spectacle, and she quickly remembers how uncomfortable it is under everyone’s gaze. So she seeks out her father—the one person who always sees Byleth for who she is, the one person who never treated her differently for being able to wield the ancient relic in her past life.

Not to mention that she had a list of questions to ask her father about her crest, about Rhea, about everything.

When she turns the corner into his office, though, she’s greeted by Alois instead.

“Professor! It’s always so good to see you!” he greets her with a smile ear-to-ear. “Jeralt is out for a few more days on a mission in western Faergus; I’m just ensuring he’s caught up on his reports.”

Byleth nods. Her list of questions would have to wait for another day, it seems.

“Ah, he probably wishes he were here right now,” Alois muses. “The Sword of the Creator… the Crest of Flames! And all the good work you do for the students. He is so proud of you, you know that? It’s all he ever talks about. Your mother would be proud, too.”

“Alois… you knew my mother?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“I hear you have a date tonight.”

Dorothea stands in the doorway to Byleth’s quarters, arms folded and corners of her mouth turned up in a curious grin. Byleth breathes out a sigh and she holds the door open for the young songstress to enter.

“It's not a date, it's just tea,” she tells her, and silently hopes that Sothis _ also _ heard because the goddess is howling in a fit of laughter on the floor of her room.

Dorothea gives Byleth a surprised look. “Oh! Funny, that's not what I heard it was called…”

“H-he said what?” Byleth stutters.

“Well, I’m not exactly sure what  _ he _ said,” Dorothea begins, smoothing her skirt and taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “But Dimitri apparently mentioned your plans to Sylvain, who told Mercie, who told Annette… you know those two tell each other  _ everything _ … So, Annie blurted it out to everyone in class yesterday.”

Byleth freezes and she can feel her ears hot with embarrassment.

"Anyway, that's how Lorenz found out. And I learned from him. You know, he really did give me an earful about it," she sighs, running her fingers through her hair. "He is rather  _ vocal _ about his opinions. But you knew that already, Professor. He was too judgemental of poor Dimitri if you ask me. Ha, I bet Claude was happy not to have Lorenz criticizing  _ him _ for once."

"So... it was just a rumor, then?"

"Is it, Professor?" Dorothea asks, her eyes glinting. "He clearly likes you."

Byleth's face feels hot again. She was not prepared for  _ that _ . Crossing her arms, she looks away. "It wouldn't be professional," she mumbles quickly.

"Ah, so you  _ do _ like him?" the brunette exclaims, clapping her hands together excitedly.

_ Oh, goddess _ .

"Dorothea, it's not—"

"It's okay. Please, Professor. I get it. I see you two together," Dorothea tries to reassure her. "I see how he looks at you. It's quite cute, if you ask me. I wish I had a man pine after me like that."

She is smiling, but Byleth is not.  _ Was it really that obvious? _ Between Dorothea's unsolicited encouragement and Sothis giggling uncontrollably in the corner of the room, Byleth just wants to curl up and die of embarrassment.  _ Perhaps I can have Hubert teach me how to warp, for in the future… and maybe a memory spell, too _ , she thinks.

"And who  _ cares _ if it's professional? You are both practically the same age. It's natural to have feelings," Dorothea continues.

Byleth buries her face in her hands. In her previous life, no one really knew about her and Dimitri during their time at the Academy.  _ I guess I can't have as much luck in this one _ .

"Now, now," Dorothea soothes as she pulls Byleth's hands away from her face. "It's going to be  _ fine _ . You know how Sylvain is, he blows everything out of proportion."

"This isn't making me feel any better."

"I'm so sorry, Professor. Honestly. I  _ did _ have an inkling, but had I known for certain… I swear I wouldn't have come in here to tease you. It was cruel of me."

Byleth sighs.

"I won't tell anyone, I  _ promise _ ," Dorothea pledges, her voice serious. She holds Byleth's hands together in her own. "It will be our secret."

"No one else  _ really _ believes the rumor, right?" Byleth asks, her eyes pleading.

Dorothea shakes her head. "You know how we are, Professor. We always give each other a hard time. The Blue Lions love teasing Dimitri in particular. He does a poor job at hiding that he's smitten with a professor, but that doesn't reflect on  _ you _ , okay?"

"I should call off the tea—"

"No, no, no!" she urges, giving Byleth's hands a squeeze. "If it's  _ just _ tea, there's nothing to worry about."

Byleth raises an eyebrow.

"Is having tea with someone a crime? Let people talk, then—you have tea with  _ everyone _ ." Dorothea looks at her expectantly. And though her confidence is fleeting, Byleth nods.

"Great! Now, please… let me style your hair and makeup! To make it up to you, of course," she gushes.

Byleth gives an exasperated sigh, but accepts the offer to indulge her.  _ It’s troublesome to share secrets _ , she thinks to herself as Dorothea delicately applies rouge to her cheeks and powder to her face. When she starts brushing through Byleth’s hair, there is a singular knock at the door. Before either of the two girls can greet the visitor, Felix pushes open the door and enters.

“Felix! Here you are...  _ impatient  _ as ever. What brings you here?” Dorothea chides.

“I’m here for the Professor. This is her quarters, isn’t it?” the swordsman huffs at her. “Anyway, Professor, my—”

He turns to address Byleth, but stops and furrows his brow at her. “Are you wearing… makeup?” he asks, squinting. She shrugs at him, and Dorothea tries her best not to laugh.

“Whatever, I’m here to tell you that my father just arrived. I…” he trails off, not wanting to disclose too much around the songstress. “I’m sure you know what that means. I’ll be at the training grounds. If he asks, I’m not there, got it?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Dimitri leads Byleth out to the pond, kettle in one hand, two tea cups in the other. When he approaches the end of the pier, he sighs with frustration and comes to a halt. She gives him an inquisitive raise of her eyebrow and he apologizes.

“I’m sorry, Professor. I should have brought a blanket with me,” he says, motioning to the damp planks of the pier. “This… isn’t going as I planned it.”

“You never have to apologize to me, Dimitri. It’s okay,” she tells him with a gentle smile. “I’m fine with just sitting on the jetty—blanket or no blanket.”

He still has a dour look on his face, so she reaches out and plucks the tea cups from his hand for added emphasis, her hand brushing softly against his gauntlets. Byleth perches at the end of the pier, her legs swinging over the edge, dangling above the water. She pats the space next to her, and the prince finally resigns and takes a seat beside her.

She procures two sachets of chamomile tea and dangles them playfully before him, earning her a genuine laugh from Dimitri. He pours hot water from the kettle into both of their cups, and while the tea steeps, they chat about everything from the upcoming lance tournament to Dedue’s latest culinary creation.

Dimitri breathes in the aroma from his cup before taking a sip. “This is my favorite. The smell is so comforting… reminds me of home.”

They share stories of their travels and their hopes and wishes until their cups are dry and the sun hangs low on the horizon. Byleth’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and Dimitri looks longingly at her when she gazes out over the sunset reflecting in the water.

“It’s a beautiful sunset this evening,” he tells her.  _ You are beautiful this evening _ , he means.

“And I still can’t believe you can wield the Sword of the Creator, Professor,” he says after a few moments of just sitting and enjoying each other’s company. “I mean, how  _ incredible _ .”

Byleth hums, folding her hands in her lap. “Except everyone treats me differently, now. Like I’m special or different somehow,” she laments, her tone serious.

“Well, Professor... I, for one, believe you were special  _ before  _ the Sword of the Creator,” Dimitri insists. But then he stammers, his ears turning crimson. “That’s… not what… What I  _ mean _ is that you are always special, with or without the Sword.”

She tilts her head up to look at him, smiling slow and genuine. Though the dying sun casts him and the entire pond in a golden hue, she can still see the rosiness on his cheeks. Byleth scoots closer to Dimitri, and moves to rest her head against his shoulder.

“Excuse me, Professor Byleth? Your Highness?”

Byleth jolts upright, and both of them turn around to face the Knight standing behind them on the pier.

“Sorry to interrupt, but the archbishop is requesting both of your presences in the audience room immediately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all of your comments and kudos as always! I appreciate your feedback and kind words ♡
> 
>  _Finally_ some more scenes with Dimitri and Byleth, y'all. _Praise Sothis._ This fic is gonna be a slow burn (if you couldn't tell already) but we'll get there... we'll get there.
> 
> Also, the dream team earned a spot in the tags--Felix and Byleth friendship. Seriously, everyone needs a wingman like Felix. (or, in other words, "forever bash bros")
> 
> Speaking of... that brings me to the DLC. The Ashen Wolves. ヽ(〃･ω･)ﾉ
> 
> I just finished my playthrough of Cindered Shadows today and I have so so so many thoughts and feelings. Please let me know what you think in the comments--who's your fave? What did you like/not like? I updated the description and tags to include Cindered Shadows spoilers just to be on the safe side. In the next chapter or so, I plan on really integrating the DLC characters and their storylines.
> 
> I have a pretty sizable project load at work this month, so I am hoping (*fingers crossed*) to have the next chapter out before the end of Februrary. I'll see you then!


	5. The Emperor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude encourages bad behavior. Ferdinand hands out party invites. Dimitri has a nightmare. Linhardt gets out of detention. Seteth has anxiety. Felix _really_ doesn’t like cake. Byleth’s divine pulse doesn’t go according to plan.
> 
> “You, to your rights  
> With boot, and such addition as your honors  
> Have more than merited.—All friends shall taste  
> The wages of their virtue, and all foes  
> The cup of their deservings. O, see, see!”  
> - _King Lear, 5.3.315-319_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I want to thank everyone so so much for the comments and kudos on the last chapter. Y'all are the best! ♡
> 
> So, uh, this chapter kinda turned into a beast. A 17k+ word beast. I would have stopped at like 10k, but sometimes the characters just want to keep going, you know? Claude and Linhardt have been especially chatty, so I'm blaming them.
> 
> Also, a large bullion to anyone who recognizes the semi-blatant Shakespeare reference in this chapter. I enjoy sprinkling them in every now and again... ;)

Dimitri pushes open the doors to the audience chamber, holding one of them open for Byleth to enter behind him. She immediately notices that Rhea and Seteth already have company—and so does the prince.

“Rodrigue!” he calls out, a sincere smile on his face.

The dark-haired man turns around to face them, greeting Dimitri and ruffling the hair on his head. Byleth remembers Lord Rodrigue from her previous life; they had gotten along quite well, though it was much to the ire of Felix, the Lord’s son. She also remembers Felix mentioning to her earlier that afternoon that his father had arrived. _Which means…_

“What brings you to the monastery?” Dimitri asks.

“I’m afraid I’m here on behalf of Margrave Gautier to ask Lady Rhea and the Church of Seiros for their assistance. A band of thieves that have been plaguing mine and the Gautier territories,” Rodrigue explains, motioning to the archbishop who bows her head in acknowledgement.

The door to the chamber swings open again; this time, Edelgard and Professor Manuela enter and join them. Manuela stands next to Byleth and gives her a nudge. “Looks like our houses get to work together again this month,” she grins. Byleth turns and nods at her, smiling—but can’t help but notice Rodrigue greet the Black Eagle house leader.

“Lady Edelgard,” he says, bowing slightly. “I am glad to see you are well.” She politely acknowledges him back, but ignores Dimitri greeting all together.

“What on earth is that about?” Sothis pipes up, leaning forward to look out curiously from behind Byleth’s legs.

_Your guess is as good as mine._

“Now that everyone is present, I have a new mission for this month. It involves thieves in Kingdom territory, which is why I am sending the Blue Lions,” Rhea announces, calling everyone to attention. “The Black Eagles will be assigned to this mission as well, because these thieves wield a Hero’s Relic. This means we need to enlist a Relic of our own.”

All eyes in the room settle on Byleth.

“Lord Rodrigue from House Fraldarius has informed the archbishop that the thieves stole the Hero’s Relic from House Gautier of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus,” Seteth explains.

Rodrigue clears his throat. “Yes, the Lance of Ruin was stolen by Miklan, the disowned son of House Gautier. Once we have reclaimed the Relic, I insist that I receive it in Margrave Gautier’s stead.” His eyes implore Lady Rhea’s, though hers only crinkle softly at the corners of her saccharine smile down at him.

“Lord Rodrigue, that we can discuss after the students have retrieved the Relic,” she deflects.

“Why is the church involved?” Byleth blurts out. Once again, heads turn and all eyes are on her. “Shouldn’t the Margrave send his own forces to deal with this band of thieves?”

Everyone is silent for a long moment—Edelgard folds her arms, Seteth appears at a loss for words, and Manuela nervously shifts her weight from one foot to the other. _Why isn’t anyone answering? I asked a valid question._ It’s Dimitri that speaks first. His hand worries at the back of his neck.

“After my father’s death, thieves have plagued the Kingdom. They pillage villages all around Faerghus, but have recently set up their headquarters somewhere in Gautier and Fraldarius territory. House Gautier’s forces are spread thin as is, trying to quell the thieves. But now, facing their own Relic, no less...” he explains, hanging his head. “The petty squabbles of the Kingdom should not be anyone else’s to bear, but my own… However, due to these circumstances, the Kingdom is left no choice but to petition the Church for assistance.”

“And we are always more than willing to help, Dimitri,” Rhea reassures him. “While a crestless thief cannot wield its true power, a Relic is an immensely powerful weapon nonetheless. More than what Margrave Gautier, or any Kingdom noble is capable of resolving without a Relic of their own.”

“Though a thief with a Hero’s Relic is worrisome, I am certain we can handle him with the Sword of the Creator on our side,” Edelgard interjects. “It was allegedly wielded by Nemesis, the King of Liberation. If the legends are true, our Professor holds the power to stand against entire armies. A band of thieves should prove to be nothing at all.”

The archbishop’s gaze narrows at the princess, who gives her a challenging look back.

_Nemesis…_

“I have sent Gilbert and some other Knights out to track Miklan and his band of thieves,” Rhea continues the mission briefing, paying no mind to Edelgard’s comments. “I will summon all of you once I have received report from him. Now, Lord Rodrigue—a moment?”

Byleth tries to apologize to Dimitri for her earlier questions, but he is quick to exit the audience chamber. She meant no offense to him by asking, but it was clear that she had broached a sensitive topic—in public, no less—and embarrassed him. She sighs, realizing she had unintentionally ruined an otherwise splendid evening with the prince. _I hope he can forgive me._

Sothis clicks her tongue. “Of _course_ he will. You really don’t know him well at all, do you?” she chides. “Shocking, after everything you two have done in your previous go-around.”

Byleth’s ears feel hot as she shushes the goddess. _Stop it, Sothis._

As she leaves the chamber, Byleth feels a tap on her shoulder. It’s Seteth. He pulls her aside in the hall outside his office. A sinking feeling settles in the pit of her stomach, much like the feeling she got as a child each time that her father caught her misbehaving.

“I’m just reminding you,” he begins, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the frustrated look on his face, “that you are expected to carry yourself in a manner befitting the wielder of that holy sword.” He glances down at the Sword of the Creator on her hip.

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I know your questions were well-meaning, Byleth,” he says under his breath. _Why is he whispering?_ “Just do your best not to question the archbishop again.”

  
  


* * *

Byleth sits on the stone edge of one of the garden beds in the greenhouse, her legs dangling in front of her. Beams of soft daylight filter through the glass roof, dancing overtop of the flowers and foliage. She reaches out and touches a tendril of cascading leaves from one of the plants—its leaves are soft, alive, growing and reaching further each day.

A melody wafts into the greenhouse, akin to a breeze. Byleth almost sleepily turns her head to the source of the music.

In walks a young woman that looks similar in age to herself. A basket in her hand swings alongside her as she strolls cheerfully into the garden, carrying her tune all the while. Her voice is soothing and pretty, but restrained—almost as if she is too afraid to sing out for all the world to hear her.

Byleth finds herself swaying to the woman’s song. It’s oddly familiar, but she can’t quite place where she’s heard it before.

She watches quietly from her seat as the woman carefully prunes the flower bed. She appears to not notice Byleth’s presence—not that Byleth minds at all. It is soothing to listen to the woman sing songs to the flowers as she scatters a handful of bone meal about the soil. After a while, she dusts her hands off on the apron tied around her skirt and brushes her bangs out of her eyes.

The woman reaches into her pocket and retrieves a ribbon; she gathers her long waves of dark hair at the nape of her neck and ties it loosely into a bow. She continues to sing as she gently cuts springs of vanilla-scented flowers to place in her basket, careful to avoid the unpleasant leaves.

Then, unprompted, the woman spins around to face Byleth. Her wide green eyes seem to look right through her as she clutches a sprig of white flowers to her chest.

“Byleth?” she asks.

Her voice sounds like it’s echoing from miles away, and it makes Byleth feel dizzy. Her fingers curl around the stone lip of the garden bed wall in an attempt to keep her grounded and sitting upright. She blinks at the woman, but it’s like she’s tunnelling away from her the longer she looks; her vision goes blurry at the edges as the woman calls her name again.

“Professor Byleth?”

“Professor?”

Her eyes flutter open to the bright sunlight streaming down through the greenhouse roof. Thankfully, a head of tousled hair peers over her, blocking the sun from stinging her eyes.

“O-oh, thank goodness, Professor! I was so scared!”

Bernadetta wraps a small hand around Byleth’s, and helps her to sit up.

“Are you OK, Professor? You fell all of a sudden… I wasn’t sure if you tripped or what… and—oh _no_! Did you hit your head?! I’m so sorry!”

Byleth blinks a few times, and looks around the greenhouse for the woman with the flowers. “Where is she?” she asks Bernadetta.

“Where’s who?”

“The woman… she was singing and… and…”

“Oh dear, I think you _did_ hit your head. Oh no, this is all my fault,” Bernadetta begins to panic again. “We should get you to see Manuela!”

“No, no,” Byleth says, shaking her head. “I’m _fine_ , Bernadetta, please.”

_Was it all just… another dream?_

* * *

Felix's arms rest on his knees as he leans forward on the edge of his bed, reading the parchment in his hands. Byleth watches from her seat on the cabinets; she carefully studies his face for a reaction.

"This letter must be ancient, right?" he asks, looking up at her. "It discusses Christophe Gaspard _by name_. He was executed by the Church four years ago—"

"Which means this assassination plot was due to happen about five Rites of Rebirth ago… or more."

The parchment curls back up, and Felix squeezes it in his fist. "They _knew_ . There's no way they read this note and thought there would be an assassination attempt last month. Hell, _they_ were the ones to kill Christophe, for the Tragedy for Duscur, we were told."

"My thoughts exactly… though I don't understand why he would plot to assassinate Rhea _and_ be involved at Duscur? Did he also hate the king?" Byleth asks.

"No, he _loved_ the royal family. And… this letter discusses the King's negotiations with Duscur. That would place Christophe far away from Duscur around the time of the tragedy. There's _no_ way he had anything to do with Duscur…"

"Yet they blamed him for it. Do you think he would try to assassinate Rhea?"

"Who knows anymore? With no investigation, no trial... I'm so angry,” Felix practically growls, the parchment scrunching in his fist again. "Ashe deserves to know the truth—"

"No,” Byleth cuts him off. “We can't tell him. Not now…"

This strikes a nerve with Felix, and he levels an intense gaze at Byleth. "Doesn't he deserve to know?" he retorts.

"Yes, but what good will that do us right now? Except make him angry, bitter, and out for revenge? We don't have all the information yet," she tries to reason with him. However, her attempt is to no avail as Felix abruptly stands to continue the argument.

"Byleth, we're sitting here with this stuff! Sitting with half of the answers to Christophe… we know from this damn letter that he was never at Duscur, and that the Church lied about it! _That_ isnt enough information for you to act? We're sitting with a fucking _crest stone_ , for goddess' sake… just _sitting_ with it! Why not give it to Linhardt?" he petitions, waving his arms animatedly.

"Because he—"

"Because he lost one of his little secret books to Seteth once, so we can't trust him… _right_ , I _know_ . You’ve told me,” he spits back at her, crossing his arms with indignation. “When are we _ever_ going to trust him, then? After Edelgard declares war on everyone? After Linhardt _joins_ her?"

Byleth blinks at him, speechless.

She is no stranger to disagreements with Felix; in her previous life, they had heated arguments over lesson plans and mission tactics when he was her student… which were replaced by arguments over battle strategies and what future was worth fighting for when he was her best general. 

"I understand you're upset, but we should hold our cards for now. Not forever, just for now,” she says cautiously. But instead of diffusing the conversation, it only incenses Felix even more.

“You’re right—I am upset. Because you’re afraid to do anything,” he says, voice dripping with restrained anger. He tosses the parchment onto his desk. “If you want to let the leads we have go cold, that’s on _you_ , Byleth. If you decide to grow a backbone and do something, you know where I’ll be.”

He slams his door behind him, leaving Byleth sitting in silence.

_He’s not wrong._

“But you're not wrong, either,” Sothis replies, taking a seat next to Byleth atop the cabinets. “It’s probably not the best time to cause more grief for Ashe. I know you still feel guilty about what happened with him before, but you cannot treat him with kid gloves forever, Byleth. Someday soon, he will have to know the truth. And he will have to hear it from you.”

Byleth nods.

“As for Linhardt and the stone… You really _should_ let him take a look at the thing,” the goddess continues. “It’s been a few days since we’ve heard from him. What is that boy up to, anyway?”

* * *

Linhardt clutches his books to his chest and plodding down the staircase looking for Claude.

He checked his room after he woke, still in his own sleeping clothes. But when he pushed open his door, Claude was nowhere to be found. Though funny enough, some girl was in his room wondering where he was, too. Linhardt also didn’t see him at breakfast, so he decided to forego a full meal. He wrapped up a slice of bread in a napkin and added it to his stack of belongings in his arms before whisking away to the library. The empty library.

 _I don’t think I’ve ever been in the library this early in the morning_ , the thinks to himself as he stifles a yawn. He only slept an hour or two last night at most—quite unlike him. He’s tempted to sit at one of the study tables, bury his head in the fold of his arms, and take a nice long nap… but who knows when he’d wake up from that. The last thing he needs is Professor Byleth getting after him about sleeping through class again. Or worse—a nagging from Edelgard. He groans at the thought.

He trudges downstairs and decides to wander over to the Golden Deer classroom to look for its house leader. Though as luck would have it, halfway through dragging his feet through the reception hall, Linhardt spots him. _What relief._

“ _There_ you are,” he half sighs, half whines, plopping down his stack of books onto the table. The two girls sitting at the table with Claude turn to look at him incredulously, though Linhardt doesn’t seem to notice or care that he interrupted them.

“Woah, pal… you look awful,” Claude says. “No offense, of course.”

“I’ve been up all night studying,” Linhardt yawns. “And not for the exams… _this_.” He pats the cover of an old tome. The girls excuse themselves from the table, and Claude mutters “sorrys” and “see-you-laters” to them. Linhardt slides the book across the table to him, and after sigh of resignation, Claude picks it up and flips through the pages.

He watches excitedly as the young Alliance lord flips through the pages across from him, waiting for a reaction or change in expression. He’s quickly dismayed when his table mate clears his throat and chooses to read a few pages aloud for all to hear.

“Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours. I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange,” Claude reads dramatically, hand to his chest while trying to stifle his laughter. Heads around them in the reception hall turn to look upon his performance with curious eyes.

“Shh, will you keep it down, Claude? This isn’t the _theatre_. I’m not supposed to have this book, anyway,” Linhardt pleads. “I would like it very much if you didn’t bellow—”

“I didn’t know you were into reading romance novels, Lin… but to each their own, I guess,” he quips back with a wink.

“It is _not_ a romance novel. It’s the _Epistles of Macuil.”_

“The _what_ of Macuil?”

“Did you even read the cover? The _Epistles of Macuil_ ,” Linhardt reiterates, intentionally speaking slower and pointing at each corresponding word on the cover. When greeted with a black stare from the lord across the table, he rolls his eyes and huffs. “ _Letters_ , Claude… it’s a collection of letters.”

Claude whispers an “oh” and nods. After a beat, his face twists up into grin. “Saint Macuil was writing _these_ kinds of letters? So much for being saintly…”

“Yes, he corresponded back and forth with someone called Noa—he addresses his more… _ardent_ letters to her. What’s most curious are her letters back to him, marked with this seal,” Linhardt shares, pointing at the symbol in the book. He rummages through his stack of books and pulls out one of his crest rubbings, sliding it next to the book to compare the symbols side by side. “It’s the same symbol as this one here, that I found in Zanado.”

“Noa, huh?” Claude ponders aloud, scratching his head. “Like Saint Noa?”

“Saint… Noa?”

“Yeah, like the fruit.”

 _He can’t be serious. Fruit?_ Linhardt sits there for a moment to measure his response before speaking. “There are only four Saints, Claude. Certainly you know that...”

“Well, there’s a Dagdan story about a Saint Noa that Shamir told me,” he replies, folding his arms on the table. “In the story, Saint Noa is a powerful sorceress who saves a village from starvation by using her magic to conjure hundreds of bright red fruits to feed everyone. And the village names the fruit after her, hence the Noa fruit you eat on your sweet buns every day.”

“I don’t eat them _every_ day…”

“You can’t lie to me, Linhardt. Anyway, back to your book of letters here…” Claude smirks, then flips the book back open and taps the page with his finger. “If all of the letters from this _Noa_ were marked with what we can assume to be her seal… wouldn’t that mean that whatever crest _this_ is,” he says, pointing to the rubbing on the table, “she bore that crest?”

Linhardt leans back and nods, impressed that Claude was able to come to the same conclusion as he did. Even after the divergence to the topic of fruit… and the uncalled for ridicule of his beloved sweet buns.

“Very plausible. But back to your Dadgan tale about this _Saint_ Noa figure being a magician… Interestingly, magic is a topic that Saint Macuil and Noa discuss extensively in their letters.”

“Oh, so serious magic talk when they’re not talking about _doting_ on each other?”

“Ugh, yes,” Linhardt groans. “Now you have me thinking… what if Saint Noa from that tale… and the Noa in these letters... _are_ the same person, as you suggest? Did the Church of Seiros at one time recognize Noa as a saint?”

“Why else would she be writing to Saint Macuil if she wasn’t a saint herself?” Claude asks, resting his chin in his palm.

“Well, as you keep pointing out, they seemed to have had a rather… _intimate_ relationship… but the letters mention that Noa retired to a seaside village.”

“Retired from what, exactly?”

Linhardt hums, unwrapping the piece of bread he took from the dining hall earlier. 

“It’s never explicitly stated anywhere in their correspondence, if I recall correctly. But I think there’s more credence to your theory than I first thought, Claude. If her seal matches this symbol, I think it is safe to assume she bore this crest… whatever it is. And perhaps she _was_ affiliated with the Church in some way due to this crest...”

“More than messing around with Saint Macuil?” Claude laughs, wiggling his eyebrows at his table mate.

“I’m just going to ignore your ribald comments from now on,” Linhardt sighs after nearly choking on a bite of bread. He brushes away the crumbs from the front of his uniform. “Anyway, I wish I had more texts to reference… hardly anything this personal was ever published about any of the Four Saints, much less this mysterious _Noa_ figure, saint or otherwise. Perhaps I can ask Tomas if he has any other books on the subject—”

“Where does Tomas acquire these books, anyway?” Claude cuts him off before he can finish his thought. “I mean, if Seteth curates the entire library… that would mean our librarian has to keep these scandalous pages hidden away _somewhere_ , yeah?”

“This is true,” Linhardt agrees, quirking his eyebrow to encourage his table mate to continue his train of thought. _What is he getting at?_

“I say instead of asking him, we follow him to the source of these books ourselves.” Claude has a smug look on his face, quite proud of himself it appears. While Linhardt could admit that Claude had many sound ideas this morning… _this_ is not one of them.

“I thought the espionage was up to you and the Professor,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll stick to my studies where I’m most useful—”

“Nuh-uh, Lin. I’m not gonna let you sit out this adventure. Else I might tell Hilda about the kind of books you’re reading these days… she’d get a real kick out of it, I’m sure.”

Linhardt blinks at Claude for a moment, watching his lips turn up into a devious smirk.

“Are you _blackmailing_ me?”

“Hey, you basically did the same to me, remember?”

“It was far from blackmail, I’d say,” Linhardt argues back, crossing his arms. “It was more like a… mutual agreement to aid each other after certain truths were revealed.”

“So… are we going to _mutually_ _agree_ to work together again so that the truth of this book _doesn’t_ get revealed?” Claude inquires, tapping the cover of the _Epistles of Macuil_ with an impatient and persistent finger. He grins even wider.

Linhardt wonders if he could take a nap… possibly forever. He also considers dropping out of the Academy for a brief moment, for nothing else but to get away from the delinquency he was just strong-armed into. _But my research… and the sweet buns._

“Ugh, _fine_. Fine,” he agrees.

“Always knew I could count on you, Linhardt!” Claude says, reaching over the table and clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s meet in the library tonight at sundown so we can start our _espionage_.”

  
  


* * *

The Aegirs are a proud family—for good reason, Ferdinand's father always tells him. The house serves the Empire as Prime Minister, as it has for centuries. _Proper politicians, serving the underserved and advising the Emperor on matters of state._ He can almost hear his father say it while he reads it in his letter. Duke Aegir sends word of a ball being held at the von Aegir estate this coming weekend, with express directions on whom to extend the invite to. His father invited all of the Empire’s ministers to the grand event, so it is now up to Ferdinand to invite their children.

Ferdinand is not about to disappoint his father, so he forgoes training with Lorenz and tea with Dorothea to sit at his desk with his quill and a stack of fine parchment, inking formal invitations to each of his peers. He spends the next day hand-delivering the invites. Caspar practically tears the invite from his hands with excitement and Bernadetta reluctantly agrees, but only after Linhardt promises to keep her company.

Hubert curiously declines after he learns that his father, Marquis Vestra, would be in attendance. _Why would one pass up an opportunity to visit their family?_ Ferdinand thinks to himself. He, for one, was itching to see his mother and his younger siblings. And his father, too, of course. Perhaps he'd be proud to hear of his son's contributions to the Black Eagles' success this year! _Wouldn't Hubert's father be proud of their house’s accomplishments as well?_

Then, he asks Edelgard. She also declines.

 _No, no, no_ , Ferdinand frets. His father also mentioned the poor health of Emperor Ionius in his letter, and that it was _imperative_ that the heir apparent to the Empire's throne attends in His Majesty’s stead. Which means that Edelgard _has to go_ to the von Aegir's ball. For what kind of ball would it be if the Imperial royalty don't make an appearance? It would reflect poorly on the von Aegirs.

Ferdinand presses again. _I cannot let my father down_ , he thinks. _He would never forgive me_.

"I _said_ that I cannot attend, Ferdinand," Edelgard reiterates, folding her arms across her chest. "Besides, it would be unwise for me, the future Emperor, to attend if Hubert cannot accompany me."

"I can understand _that_. But certainly, Edelgard, I could keep you safe,” he suggests with a humble bow.

"Could you, now,” she responds cooly, flipping a lock of her hair over her shoulder.

"Indeed. Yet you speak to me so condescendingly,” Ferdinand huffs, his brow serious. “What is it about me that offends you so?"

" _Please_ , Ferdinand, won't you let me just decline the invitation?"

"No! You always decline!” His vehement response surprises her. It is a rare event that he reacts so emotionally. “I _always_ attend your functions, yet you never attend mine. Tell me, what do you have against me, Edelgard?"

Momentarily speechless, the princess’ mind reels. "You... make everything a competition," she says simply after a beat.

"This is a ball, not a sparring match,” Ferdinand counters. 

"You're as stubborn as ever."

"That I am, but I have always been.” He folds his arms to match her. _Stubborn, am I? Stubborn I shall be, then._ “Why are you not honest with me? You owe me as much; I am always honest with you. I will be your Prime Minister one day! Yet you share everything with Hubert and laugh in my face.”

“Ferd—”

“Halt,” he tells her, not budging. “Do you have any idea how _insulting_ that is? My father specifically asked me to ensure that you attend his ball. He will look upon me with shame that the future emperor refuses to attend the same ball as her future Pr—”

Edelgard taps her boot on the floor to cut him off. “So _that_ is what this is about,” she says, her voice prickling at the edges. “Pity. I wished that my future Prime Minister wouldn’t be someone else’s puppet.” The princess stands a little taller and straighter before pivoting on her heel and turning to walk away, her crimson cape fluttering behind her.

“Wh- what are you insinuating, Edelgard?” he stutters as she leaves him behind in the classroom. _Me… Ferdinand von Aegir—a puppet? No, I am a dutiful son,_ he thinks to himself. _It is my duty to honor my father’s wishes and follow in his footsteps as noble Prime Minister of Adrestia… It is my duty to make him proud._

  
  


* * *

Byleth pulls the door shut behind her after leaving Felix's room for the evening. The dormitory halls are quiet and dark, and in the thick of summer, the nights offer little relief from the oppressive heat. It feels suffocating to Byleth; she wants nothing more to return to her quarters and peel off the clothes that stick to her skin so uncomfortably.

She glances down at the paved steps outside the dorms and sees one of the monks making their rounds over by the training grounds. She sighs in relief, knowing they would start on the first floor and work their way down before moving up to the second... buying Byleth enough time to slip down the stairs undetected—

A door creaks open behind her, and Byleth stiffens in reaction. She steps into the shadows to avoid curious eyes and the inevitable questioning afterwards. Peering down the hallway, she watches Dimitri step into the hallway. She doesn't realize she's holding her breath until that moment.

He walks into the soft glow of the moonlight that filters in through the windows. His eyes are tired and sunken, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion. Her chest aches at the sight of him and his troubled expression... it's the same face that she would nurse back to its smiling self time and time again in her past life.

"Dimitri?" she whispers, stepping out into the corridor.

His head turns slowly, movements made languid by his lack of sleep. "Professor," he breathes. Dimitri's brow softens at the sight of her.

"Can't sleep?"

He shakes his head wearily. Byleth closes the distance between them as she steps forward to meet him in the middle of the hall. Looking up at him, she notices his eyes are puffy. She frowns and without thinking, she reaches out her hand to touch his arm soothingly.

"Have you been crying?"

"You're stealing my lines, Professor," he laughs breathily. She opens her mouth to say something, but closes it again. It's like her brain is stuttering, unsure of what words to speak or how close she is to him or how long her hand has been on his arm.

"Just a joke... You didn't expect that from me, surely."

He smiles down at her, but it doesn't quite reach his tired eyes. She notices the sweat clinging to his brow and damp on his neck and collarbone, exposed by the loose-fitting linen of his night clothes. Byleth swallows as his arm curls up to cup her elbow, his muscles tensing under the touch of her hand.

"What are you two doing up this late?"

Byleth and Dimitri both step apart from each other and swivel their heads to the source of the voice. _The monk_ , Byleth remembers, mentally berating herself for getting caught.

"Curfew was hours ago, you know," the monk explains, hands on her hips.

Byleth bows slightly in apology. "No need to worry. I was just escorting my student back to his quarters," she says with a flood of confidence. "I had just been telling him that there won't be any more breaking of curfew after tonight... right, Dimitri?"

She gives him a gentle nudge.

"Y-yes! Yes ma'am," he agrees nervously.

The monk hums in response. "Very well. Thank you for your assistance, Professor. Please make sure you make it back to your quarters soon after—there's been reports of people roaming about the monastery at night. You're both safest _inside_." She walks away from them and heads down the stairwell, leaving Byleth to sigh in relief.

Byleth steps around Dimitri and opens the door to his room, holding it open and nodding her head for him to enter. "I promised to get you back to your quarters, remember?" she tells him, her voice hushed but playful. A blush blooms on his face, visible even in the dim light, and he ducks inside. He stops in the middle of the room, turning to face her as she bids him goodnight.

"Wait, Professor," he says suddenly. "You... you don't have to leave."

"You want me to stay?"

A heat crawls up his neck, burning at his ears and cheeks. "Sorry... what I mean is, I would like you to stay to talk. If that is alright with you, of course."

_Of course it's alright with me._

"Would talking help you sleep? You look unwell, Dimitri."

"I feel unwell," he whispers. "I'm just tired, I guess... And yes, I think talking would help. I... it helps, talking to you."

His eyes are pleading and Byleth can't resist. She steps forward into the room, gently pushing the door shut behind her. He offers her a weak smile and she returns it. Byleth kicks off her shoes to not dirty his linens, and crawls onto his bed; she sits and leans against the stone wall which is cool on her skin, offering some welcome relief to the heat and humidity. Only when she looks up at the flummoxed expression on Dimitri’s face does she realize that her action was perhaps too forward in this time.

Byleth doesn’t dwell on it for long as he takes a seat beside her on the bed. They talk about his nightmares. And though she’s heard him tell her all of it before, she sits and listens patiently as he describes his dreams about Duscur, about his father and stepmother and Glenn. Dimitri tells her that seeing and hearing them in his dreams is painful—so vivid and reminiscent of times past that it’s like he’s reliving those very moments. She can’t relate; her dreams lack the clarity that his seem to have, each one more confusing than the last.

She looks up at the prince, at the sweat gathering in the hollow of his collarbone. His hair looks almost damp, sticking to the nape of his neck and some to his temple. Byleth tentatively reaches out and brushes the hair off his forehead with her thumb, and he flinches out of surprise.

“Sorry… your hair,” she murmurs.

“O-oh.”

“Dimitri, we don’t have to keep talking about your nightmares if they upset you. We can talk about something else if you’d like?”

The prince pauses and wipes the sweat from his forehead with a weary hand, his fingers lingering over where she touched him so gently just a moment ago. Then, a genuine smile blooms across his face—so sterling and unexpected that Byleth cannot help the corners of her own mouth turning up into a grin. Dimitri breathes a laugh and launches into a story about how Mercedes tried to teach him how to sew the other day; neither of them can hide the amused expressions on their face while he recounts just how many needles he bent and broke.

  
  


_“You know, Professor, there was a time where they were inseparable,” Rodrigue tells her. He downs the rest of his glass, then motions to the bar hand for another. “If you can believe that.”_

_“I’ll take your word for it,” she jests, nursing her own drink._

_The eyes of the Duke light up as he remembers a distant but fond memory. He slides some coin across the bar top in exchange for his fresh pint. “Felix always wanted to train with His Highness. But there was one day where Glenn practically_ dragged _him inside to His Majesty and I… Felix was hysterical—couldn’t even get a word out to let us know what was wrong.”_

_He laughs, remembering. “Next thing you know, Dimitri walks in crying, too. He was begging Felix to forgive him. Then we realized he was carrying two parts of a sword in his arms—a blade that my son had been gifted for his birthday. And His Highness broke it clean in half! Accidentally, of course... scared Felix to no end.”_

_“I can’t blame him!” she giggles. “A child breaking a sword like that? How did he manage something like that?”_

_“We chalked it up to be the Blaiddyd crest. Wasn’t the last time it happened, either. Even his father broke weapons all the time back in our days at the Academy. Drove the Knights mad,” he chuckles to himself. “And you’re right—poor Felix had never seen just how powerful the prince was until then.”_

  
  


Byleth closes her eyes at the memory. She imagines what Dimitri was like as a child, beyond the stories that Rodrigue had told her and before the pain of the Tragedy of Duscur. It’s then she realizes that Dimitri had never shared any part of his life before the Tragedy with her… in this time, or the last.

“Experiencing something like that… it changes people,” Sothis chimes in, startling Byleth.

 _Have you been here this whole time?_ she thinks sharply, shooting a glare over at the goddess perched on Dimitri’s desk across the room. Sothis shrugs mischievously.

_Do… do you think he remembers?_

“What, his childhood? How am I supposed to know, Byleth? I may be a goddess but I’m not a mind reader… well, except for you, it seems. Why don’t you ask h—”

“I’m sorry that I had you go through all this trouble tonight, Professor,” Dimitri says softly. Byleth gaze lifts to regard him. His blue eyes are downcast and his shoulders sunken, like any of the levity gathered from their conversation evaporated into the humid summer air.

“Oh, Dimitri… I said you never have to apologize to me.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But I’ve kept you up all night.”

“I was awake already, silly,” she shoots him a grin and playfully pats his arm. She scoots to the edge of his bed, her feet touching the floor. Stretching as she stands, Byleth turns to reach for her shoes and notices the prince watching her. She pivots to hide the blush on her cheeks as she slips into her boots.

He clears his throat, moving to stand as well. “Professor, allow me to get the door—”

“No, Dimitri,” she says, holding a hand up to him. “Thank you, but I can get the door. _You_ need to sleep. This isn’t one of my lectures, but it’s not healthy to keep studying and training when you’re exhausted like this.”

He sighs in defeat, his shoulders sagging. Part of her feels bad for leaving Dimitri; she wishes she could stay and comfort him like she had in another time. Instead, she walks over to him and gently brushes back his damp hair with her fingers—an affectionate gesture, but hopefully some small comfort to the prince. Her eyes lock with his for a moment, silently pleading with him to rest.

“If it’s not one of your lectures, Professor… what _is_ this?” he asks her, his voice uncharacteristically small.

She pauses for a moment—the air is thick and heavy between them.

“Just me looking out for someone I care about,” she whispers. Byleth moves to the door, leaving words left unsaid and a feeling of tightness in her chest, hand curling around the cool metal handle. “Promise me you’ll get some rest tonight, Dimitri?”

* * *

If Claude spent as much time actually studying as he did he did _pretending_ to study... he might receive better scores at the Academy, sure. But he surely would miss out on all the interesting happenings around the monastery. And admittedly, he is much more invested in developing his political acumen than taking exams and spitting arrows during missions for the Church. And if it wasn't for those reasons, and his insatiable curiosity about the Church's best kept secrets, Claude would never find himself fake writing a report on tactics in the library on a Friday night... waiting on _Linhardt_ of all people.

They sit at different tables to draw less suspicion. Though he is acutely aware that _he_ is the suspicious one between the two of them. Linhardt is pouring over a book and his crest rubbings, leaflets of parchment strewn all over the table. Charcoal stains his fingertips which in turn leave smudges on his cheek as he rests his face on his hand while he reads. This is all typical for the young mage.

When was the last time Claude came to the library to study and not pry information out of him and Teach? _Oh, well there was that one time I pranked Lysithea by putting her books up on a shelf that was just out of her reach... that_ was _a good one_ , he laughs to himself.

"Oh, Tomas! There you are!"

Claude pretends to be busy as Linhardt waves over the librarian.

"I wanted to return this book; it was an excellent read," Linhardt says, offering the tome back.

"I'm happy to hear that, young von Herving! I trust it was of use for your research?"

Linhardt nods. "Indeed! If you happen across any other books regarding this symbol," he says, tapping his finger on one of his smudgy charcoal rubbings, "I'd be most grateful."

"Of course, of course," Tomas chuckles. "I must be off for the evening, now. Please make sure to clean up when you're finished."

"I will do my best to remember," Linhardt yawns. Tomas laughs again and waves goodbye. Once the librarian turns the corner down the hall, the young mage quickly stuffs all of his crest rubbings in between the pages of one of his books. Claude just leaves his quill and inkpot lay as he springs up from the table.

"Follow me, and stay quiet," he whispers intently to Linhardt; he steps cautiously out into the hallway, looking for wandering priests and monks. Before they proceed, Claude sticks out a hand to stop the young mage. "Nope, you're leaving _that_ here," he gestures to the books and notes in Linhardt's arms.

"I can't just _leave_ it here—what if someone finds—"

"Trust me, Lin. _No one_ spends their Friday nights in the library. It'll be fine."

The mage protests under his breath. " _I_ spend my Friday nights here..."

Claude leads the way, his feet quick and quiet down the hall, all while keeping an unassuming distance behind Tomas. Thankfully, not many others are milling around the monastery. _They're probably all enjoying a night out in the village,_ he thinks to himself, part of him wishing he was dancing to some vagrant bard’s tune at the pub with a drink in hand.

"Up ahead," he whispers to Linhardt who trails closely behind him. Claude stops behind the corner of the dining hall as he watches the librarian cross the lawn in front of the classrooms. He grabs the arm of Linhardt to drag him along, slipping noiselessly between the columns and around the Black Eagles classroom—they peer around the edge of the building toward the doors to the training grounds. Tomas rounds the corner.

 _Is he headed to the sauna? I swear,_ everyone _is having a better night than me, even a crusty old librarian._

He watches Tomas turn and disappear into the alcove between the dormitory and the stone steps up to the sauna.

"Wh—"

Claude hushes Linhardt, tugging on his arm to keep him from walking out ahead. He pauses a moment, despite his gnawing curiosity, to let Tomas go... _wherever_ it is he's going, but also to check if they would be caught by the wandering eyes of their classmates. After determining the area is clear, he tugs the mage with him as they swiftly move to the alcove.

_Huh?_

"Where's the door?"

Linhardt casts a spell, holding it in his palm to brighten the stone wall. He looks equally as puzzled as Claude.

"I didn't see him warp anywhere..."

Claude huffs and runs his fingertips along the bricks, trailing along the lines of grouting. Then, something catches his eye.

"Lin," he urges his partner. "Bring that light over here."

As Linhardt moves his hand closer, Claude sees the faintest shadow. It almost looks like a long vertical crack through the stone and grout, though too perfectly straight to be just from settling over a millenia of people traversing these steps. He moves his fingers along the crease before placing his palms flush on the wall.

He sucks in a breath before pushing; the wall gives, swinging open like any other door around the monastery, much to the pair's surprise. The light from Linhardt's spell illuminates a cavernous staircase that seems to be endless, as neither of them are able to see the end of the steps. They are wordless, perhaps out of shock. Or maybe, because the questions they would ask are pointless now—'what, why, and how long?' didn't really seem to matter when this secret doorway to the underbelly of Garreg Mach stares right back at them.

Claude turns to give a look of resolve at Linhardt, and they begin their descent. Once he thinks the trek down will never end, their feet find purchase on level ground. There's a bend ahead of them, so he turns to Linhardt and waves him in that direction. Peeking around the corner, they see no sign of Tomas, or _anyone_ for that matter—only a few stray cats and dogs curled up between puddles and piles of rubble.

To their right, Claude spies an opening to an alcove or something that is aglow with the flicker of torchlight. As he approaches, the contents of the room come into view—it's clearly a library, and his heart begins to race with the thrill of success and discovery. But he steels himself before getting too excited, poking his head into the room before entering to check for Tomas or any one else.

"Looks like we're the only ones here, Lin," Claude tells the mage. He steps into the underground library and stops in the middle of the room, hands on his hips. Linhardt's blue eyes widen as he stares up at the bookcases that tower around them; the smell of musty pages and mildew is strong, but just an afterthought in the wake the surrounding magnificence. "Guess this is where old Tomas gets all his forbidden books, huh?"

Claude turns to face Linhardt after not hearing a peep from him since their arrival in the library. He grins at the awestruck look on his face. "What, cat got your tongue?" he jokes.

All Linhardt can do is nod. The spell in his hand fizzles out as it drops to his side, leaving them only in the glow of the library torchlight. He paces over to the wall of books and runs his fingers delicately over the tattered and worn spines.

"I would never have thought…” His hand is practically trembling as he touches the embossed titles, wiping away the dust from cracked leather and unbound pieces of parchment tucked in any available space on the shelves. “Oh! _Romance of the World's Perdition_ ? _The Tales of Dromi_ ? How fascinating, many of these texts would never be allowed in the monastery library,” he murmurs. “And look here, these pages are burnt, _The Faerghus Rebellion_ … Some of these titles are in other languages... this looks like Morfish. And this one appears to be written in _Srengi_?"

"A place like this must be a wet dream for you, Lin," Claude snarks. He steps forward to a large gap in the center of the library, staring up at more levels of books and down at gated doors and windows on the floors below them. _There are more floors further down than this?!_ he thinks to himself.

"Tch, so crass. It's unbecoming of you," Linhardt says dryly, going back to studying the shelves of tomes before him.

Claude laughs, stepping beside the mage to join him in examining what mysterious books the underground library has to offer. "Have you been hanging out with Lorenz? You're starting to sound an awful lot like him."

"Me? Like _Lorenz_?" Linhardt gasps, plucking something of interest from the shelf. "It's unfair to compare us, Claude. Lorenz has a personality disorder of some sort, I'm certain."

Claude sputters out a laugh, unable to restrain himself. "Y'know Lin," he wheezes, finally catching his breath a little, "you're not that b—"

"Hey! What are you two doing down here?"

Their heads swivel to see one of the Knights standing in the entrance to the library. Linhardt's eyes widen and he clutches the book to his chest. On the other hand, Claude's mind is whirring as he steps forward confidently, hands held up in the air in mock surrender.

"Actually, we're not sure how we got here," he lies easily, his face wearing an _innocent-enough_ expression. "Me and my friend here must've take a wrong turn and gotten los—"

"You expect me to believe that? A couple of kids like you don't just happen upon this place," the Knight counters, shooting Claude a stern look.

"This is all just one big misunderstanding. We really—"

"Save it, kid," the Knight cuts him off. "Students are forbidden from coming down here. So I'll have you both come with me; you can explain all you want to Lady Rhea."

 _Fuck_ , Claude thinks as they Knight waves them along. _Fuck!_ Usually he has better luck in these situations. While not the best swordsman, he certainly prides himself on his silver tongue and ability to charm his way through anything. He thought his plan was flawless—tail Tomas to wherever he was getting these stupid forbidden books, steal some _more_ of those stupid books, and then maybe make it back in time to join Hilda, Sylvain, and the others down at the village pub. _But no, the only guy in the monastery on a fucking Friday night finds us._

"Sorry, man. I guess there's no talking our way out of this one," he sighs to Linhardt, just out of earshot of the Knight.

The boys hang their heads and walk begrudgingly behind the Knight, following him out of the underground library. Claude notices that Linhardt has been eerily quiet this whole time and glances over at the mage. He's gripping the tome in his arms so tightly that his knuckles are white as chalk.

"You OK, Lin?"

His face is pale and blank, dejection written all over it. There's apathy in his eyes, hidden by his dark lashes and a fringe of his hair. But despite that, there is a flicker of determination in his eye.

"No," he whispers back. Linhardt raises his head, that fire Claude sees in his eyes glinting. "I am _not_ going to sit in detention for this."

The mage suddenly stops walking, causing Claude to nearly trip over his own feet as he looks back in surprise. Linhardt swiftly tucks the book under his arm, then conjures a sphere of magic between his palms. It's glowing, _moving_ as if it's alive... all magic and sorcery mumbo jumbo that Claude can make zero sense of. However, he understands what happens next very well.

Before the Knight even has a chance to turn around and ask them to quit dragging their feet, Linhardt releases the spell at him. It's a powerful gust of wind or _something_ that quite literally blows the Knight backward several yards. He tumbles to the ground, his armor clattering on the damp stone floor of the underground tunnel.

"Holy shit," Claude says, jaw agape and face stunned in abject horror. _What just happened? What did Linhardt just do?!_ "That was a _Knight_ !" he stammers. This time, it's Linhardt to tug on _his_ arm to pull him along.

"Ugh. He's not _dead_ , Claude. Only... knocked out. Now c'mon, let's get out of here before he wakes."

Finally, Claude's feet and mind catch up to the present moment, and he jogs ahead with Linhardt. He looks down at the Knight on the ground as they rush past him and up the stairs to the surface.

"Holy _shit_."

  
  


* * *

Byleth sees Felix in the dining hall and decides to take the seat across from him. She slides her bowl onto the table.

"Looks like they've kept this in their rotation," she says, scooping a spoonful of Daphnel stew into her mouth.

Felix shakes his head but says nothing. He rests his spoon on the edge of his own bowl. They have only spoken a few times since he yelled at her and stormed off the other day. And while it certainly stung, she deserved it. She has been letting her fear get in the way of their progress.

Surprisingly, he remains in his seat. They eat together in silence, but that's enough for Byleth. She had been spending more time with Felix's father this past week than Felix himself—something the latter probably probably noticed. Having two Fraldarius men under the same roof is proving difficult for each of them. While the son makes a game out of avoiding confrontation, the father is frustrated, always one step behind trying to seek out the other.

That is, until today.

“Professor! Felix!” Rodrigue says, eyes and smile both wide at the opportunity that has presented so wonderfully before him. “Care if I join you?”

Byleth happily agrees, though Felix glowers into his bowl, unmoving and without comment. His father takes a seat beside him anyway. He tucks into his stew, humming pleasantly. “Oh, this is just wonderful,” he says delightedly after a bite. “Felix, what I wouldn’t give for your mother to make this again.”

Felix pushes away from the table abruptly, sweeping up his bowl and utensils along with him.

“All you two want to talk about is this _stupid_ stew when Miklan’s band of thugs pillage and rape villages across the Kingdom? When the Western and Central churches hold blades at each other's throats while teaching us believers to be virtuous and pure?” Felix snaps. “When the Flame Em—”

“I’m sorry,” Byleth interjects, the stony look on her face incongruous with her apology—a look that demands he stop before finishing his thought. “I’m sorry,” she says again, softer and more sincere.

“I have nothing more to say. Enjoy your lunch,” he replies before walking away.

Byleth sighs, placing her spoon down on the table. _Must he always be so mulish? His father only means well…. I only mean well._

“You know, I’ve been here a week, and that’s the only thing he’s said to me,” Rodrigue breaks the silence, a ghost of a chuckle in his voice. The look in his eyes betrays the hurt he feels. “Even if he wants nothing to do with me, I’m thankful he has you around to look after him, at least.”

“Truth be told, he has been avoiding me this week as well,” Byleth admits. She curls her hands around her bowl, feeling the warmth radiate into her palms.

“That’s a shame. I’m sorry about that, Byleth. I know you two are close.”

Byleth looks up and quirks her eyebrow at the Duke. He smiles wistfully down at his food, giving it a stir with his spoon.

“He has mentioned you a lot in the letters he writes home. The letters are for his mother, but she allows me to read them. Those letters are all I really know of my son… and in them, he speaks of you so highly. A mentor in sword, shield, and _life_. It’s clear that you are a true friend to him, Professor.”

“I’m flattered, Lord Rodrigue,” Byleth replies, truly at a loss for words. Though hearing about his letters makes her even more upset with herself. “I just… I just regret that I let him down as his professor.” _I regret that I let down my truest ally_ , she means.

“Don’t worry, Byleth. Everyone makes mistakes—you yourself are so young. You’re allowed to make a mistake. Felix will see that.”

“But why won’t he see that in _you_ , Rodrigue?” Byleth asks suddenly as the thought comes to her. “I’m sorry to speak so freely, but it upsets me when I see him ignore you. It probably shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I would do _anything_ for my father to reach out to me.”

The sting of all of the secrets her father kept outside of the ones he wrote about in his diary… about her mother, about his time as a Knight of Seiros, about his past with Lady Rhea. She had never asked in her previous life; but in this one, she did ask. But each time she seeks him out to talk, he is either gone on a mission or too busy preparing for one. Each time she leaves his office she is left with more questions than when she entered… mostly curiosity if it was the missions keeping them apart or the fact that her father didn’t want to share.

Rodrigue gives her a knowing look.

“Byleth, in our youth, we are raised to honor our fathers. We follow in their footsteps, trotting about in their boots that are far too large on our tiny feet. Our fathers are wise… they teach us about loyalty and honesty. Yet, as we grow older, we ask our fathers ‘what is loyalty?’ when they leave us behind for battle… and ‘what is honesty?’ when they are so hardened and emotionally unavailable from the bitterness of the world…”

He sighs, stirring his stew once more.

“In our fathers’ absence, we gain our own wisdom and realize that our fathers are merely human—flawed, wounded, and imperfect—and hopefully, in time, we come to realize that we are the same. Destined to be like our fathers, and his father, and all fathers before him,” Rodrigue continues. “But in our father’s absence, we no longer have footsteps to follow or boots to fill. Only then are we finally free to cut our own path.”

_Cut my own path?_

Rodrigue shakes his head and laughs. “Listen to me ramble on and disrupt this fine lunch…”

“It’s okay, I enjoy listening,” she assures the Duke. The church bell tolls, signalling the end of the lunch hour. Byleth looks up, realizing her seminar is starting soon. “I’m so sorry, Rodrigue, but I have a class to teach.”

“Of course, of course. No need to worry. But say, Professor?” he asks. “Before you go, may I ask a favor of you concerning your upcoming mission?”

Byleth nods as she stands and gathers her things.

“When you retrieve the Lance of Ruin… please ensure that you return it to me or Sylvain. The Church will ask to retain it, like they try to do with all Relics. But the Lance belongs in the hands of Margrave Gautier. I hope you can understand.”

* * *

After walking for a couple hours, they finally reach the edge of the village. Byleth tugs encouragingly on the little girl's hand, pulling her along and telling her that she's almost home. She looks up at Byleth with her impossibly wide eyes.

They enter the soft glow of the village, strolling down quaint dirt paths as dogs and other children run home for the evening. The sun dips below the treeline, the day fading away. The girl tugs her scarf tightly around her.

"My mother made this for me," she tells Byleth. It's a chunky knit with red and pink yarn running through it—crimson tassels swinging in the chill that stings at her cheeks.

"Wow! It suits you," she smiles down at the girl who practically jumps giddily at the compliment. A particularly biting gust of wind elicits a shiver from both of them, and Byleth remembers the girl is only wearing the scarf. The temperature will only continue to drop, so it's important that she returns the girl home soon. Besides, her parents must be worried sick.

"Hey, do you know the way to your house? I'm sure your mother is waiting for you."

The girl frowns. "My mother is back that way," she says, pointing behind them. "My house is that way, I think." She then points ahead of them, down the gravel street. Byleth quirks her eyebrow at the girl.

"Your mother... isn't at home?"

"No, she wouldn't come with me," the girl responds.

Byleth knows it's not uncommon to have parents live apart from each other or one reason or another. Though she is surprised because the girl is dressed quite well to be just a commoner—too well, it seems.

She figures she must be the daughter of a wealthy merchant—though it strikes her as odd that a child of a well-to-do family would be off missing with no one looking for her... especially if they live in a village as small as this one. There was one time Byleth got lost as a child, and the entire village was out looking for her within hours after her father noticed she was missing.

The other matter that puzzles Byleth is her house—they've been walking for several minutes now through the village, and the girl has made no indication of which house is hers. And, if Byleth is correct in assuming the girl is a wealthy merchant's daughter, she has yet to see a house lavish enough to be owned by such a man.

"I don't know why she wouldn't come with," the girl continues. "She would get to see everyone again. I know I am excited to see my friends and brother and sisters again. And papa, of course."

She begins to skip along, her hand swinging Byleth's between them.

"I can't wait to go on adventures with my brother Rolfe again... and practice magic with my friend. Did you know that my best friend is really good at magic?!"

"I did not know that," Byleth says.

"Yes, he's super good at it," she says, then sighs deeply as her skipping slows to a walk. "I hope that he still wants to teach me magic. I'm not that good at it. Do you think he will remember me, miss? Will my brother want to play with me?"

"Of _course_ your brother will want to play with you," Byleth assures her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "Family is always there for each other, right?"

The girl sniffles and wipes her nose on the back of her hand. _Had she been crying?_

"W-what about by friends? I was gone a long time, miss... do you think they forgot about me?"

"I—"

"Edelgard!"

The little girl whirls around to look, but Byelth turns to look down at the child who's chapped hand clings to her own.

_Edelgard?_

The girl's hair is tied back with ribbons, but it is brown—not white. Her eyes, now that she looks closer at them, are the same lilac color. But they are also different somehow… perhaps wider or brighter, but it’s all around difficult to describe the difference. Maybe this girl just happens to be called Edelgard, too. Maybe she heard wrong? _Why would a princess be wandering around a half-frozen wheat field, anyway?_

Byleth looks up behind them. Two horses approach, they and their riders donned in royal blue. Were they in Faerghus? _Why are they in Faerghus?_

The bigger man has golden hair and an all too familiar kindness in his eyes; he’s accompanied by another male with dark hair who looks an awful lot like—

“Felix?” she blurts out. Neither of the men react. _That has to be him—it looks just like him!_

She looks at the other man again, the one with the golden hair. “D-Dimitri?”

Again, no response. It’s as if they do not even hear her speak.

“There you are, Edelgard,” the dark-haired rider says. “We’ve been looking for you all day.”

The little girl hides behind Byleth, making herself small and praying to not be seen.

“Come on now, El. Your mother has been worried sick,” the blonde man says, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he smiles warmly at her, reaching out his hand.

The girl clutches tightly to Byleth instead. She tugs on her cloak until she gets her attention. “I don’t want to go back with them,” she cries, tears streaming hot down her face. “ _Please_ don’t make me go back, miss! I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go. _I don’t want to go._ ”

  
  


* * *

The climb up Conand Tower is easier this time than the last. The addition of the Blue Lions helps expedite the mission, providing enough students to easily disarm the band of thieves instead of killing them. Thankfully, Gilbert, Manuela, Dimitri, and even Edelgard, much to Byleth's surprise, were all in favor of her plan for no unnecessary casualties. The objective was to get in, subdue the bandits and Miklan, and retrieve the relic before he attempts to use it. They'd turn in the bandits to Margrave Gautier to be jailed and dealt with in due process... something that the Church would bypass entirely. And, with no demonic beast, Byleth will not have to watch the anguish in Sylvain's eyes as he puts down his brother for a second time.

She turns to look down the steps behind her as they make their final ascent to the top of the tower.

  
  


_"P-professor," Bernadetta cries, trembling as Ferdinand pulls his lance out of the chest of one of the bandits next to her. The sound is wet and the blood is warm as it coats the winding staircase behind them. A trail of bodies, the shuffle of her students' feet on the soaked stone... the smell of iron mingling with the scent of the summer storm rolling in._

  
  


Another wave of bandits meets them in the stairwell. Petra is beside her, parrying one of their blows. She pushes them back with the wood of her axe,

  
  


_speckles of crimson adorning her face alongside her tattoos as her axe sinks into one of them. The blade slices right through, and scrapes hideously against the stone of the wall, causing the weapon to ring in her hands. Byleth watches her grimace and shake the feeling out before wielding her weapon again._

  
  


Caspar is up ahead and makes easy work of the thieves. One rushes down to meet him, but he braces himself and with a swift knock of his gauntlets, he sends the man tumbling down the staircase to be restrained and whisked away by Linhardt and Dorothea. The glow of magic beams up from their direction as they heal the wounded

  
  


_of their own, leaving the half-dead bandits to gurgle on the blood seeping into their throats, and moan as their splintered bones pierce their flesh. As Linhardt heals a wound on Hubert's arm, a bandit rushes them from one of the corridors. Dorothea is quicker, though, and with another burst of magical light, her spell tears through the man as he crumples, his blade blackened as it clatters to the ground before him._

_"Professor, that seems to be the last of the bandits, for now," Edelgard says as she pulls her blade out of the corpse beneath her boot. Byleth wipes her brow with the back of her hand, realizing it was damp with blood instead of sweat once she pulls it away._

  
  


"What?"

"I said that Bernadetta and Ingrid have the bandits detained below," Edelgard repeats, giving her a curious look. Byleth swallows and murmurs her understanding back to the princess, shaking off her lingering memories of this place that find a way to creep back in.

"Miklan should be at the top—we're almost there, Professor," Sylvain says, joining them. Dimitri is not far behind.

"Indeed. Edelgard and I will head in first with Sylvain," he says, smoothing his errant blonde hair back. He follows the path of Edelgard's gaze to rest on Byleth's face. "We'll retrieve the Relic, Professor."

Edelgard nods, looking away. "And then we can put this all behind us. Let's go, Dimitri." Her cape flutters behind her as she turns to leave and Sylvain follows, holding tight to his lance. Dimitri lingers behind for a moment.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice lowered so that only she can hear it. Byleth looks up at the soft blue eyes questioning her with concern. For a moment, she relaxes. The memories flooding back had come on without warning, making her dizzy and disoriented; only now with Dimitri in front of her does she begin to feel grounded again.

She opens her mouth to speak, but Felix interrupts, leading a small group of students.

"Move along, boar. Edelgard's waiting on you. We'll be right behind," he says, tilting his head back at the others. He makes stern eye contact with Byleth before proceeding, the icy Fraldarius glare piercing right through her as if to say ' _knock it off; get it together before you get yourself killed_.'

Dimitri sighs, searching Byleth’s eyes for something she doesn't quite understand, and nods, stepping away from her to join Edelgard and Sylvain at the front of their makeshift guard. Byleth grips the handle of the Sword of the Creator and follows closely behind them, falling in step with the others. She shouts at Linhardt and Mercedes to stay in the back.

Before they round the corner to the top of the tower, Felix whispers to her. "Don't let your compassion for Sylvain get in the way; if it comes to it, you'll have to do something about Miklan."

_I don't plan on it coming to that._

Miklan stands with the Lance of Ruin slung over his shoulder, the Relic pulsing red and moving almost like it's alive. There's a scant few of his thieves accompanying him, drawing their blades at the sight of the students.

“Why have you come, you fool?” he snarls as Sylvain steps out ahead of the others.

“I”m here for the Lance of Ruin, Miklan. So let’s do this peacefully and just hand it over,” the younger brother reasons, slinging his own weapon behind him. He holds out his hands before him to show that they have no intention of fighting.

“You’ve taken _everything_ from me, and you _still_ want more. If not for you… If it hadn’t been for you—”

“Shut _up_!” Sylvain’s voice echoes throughout the tower. “I’m so tired of hearing that. You’ve always blamed me for something that isn’t my fault.”

Miklan reaches for the Lance of Ruin, and Byleth lunges forward, drawing her own Relic. The Sword of the Creator detaches and propels forward. It wraps around the lance, and when Byleth snaps her blade back, it flies out of Miklan's hands and clatters to the ground across the room. Armed with no other weapon, he steps back and Byleth advances, her still aglow in her hand. The other bandits also hesitate and step back as Hubert and Edelgard move in their direction, his magic at the ready and her axe in hand.

Dedue and Ferdinand rush ahead and restrain Miklan, though he struggles against their hold.

"It's time to yield, Miklan. It's over," Dimitri tells him, stepping forward to face the eldest Gautier son.

"Enjoying playing king, _Your Highness_?" he growls, still thrashing against the hold on him.

"I am not playing at anything. It is my duty to protect the people of Faerghus, the very ones _you_ terrorize," Dimitri replies, his voice stern and measured. "And like it or not, Miklan, I will be your king one day."

Miklan spits in Dimitri's face, causing both Dedue and Ferdinand to painfully tighten their grip on him, pulling him back from the prince. Sylvain and Felix both step forward, too, their hands on their weapons.

"I will bow to no Crest-bearer," he sneers at the prince. “You’re useless to help the people of your country. Just like King Lambert. He did _nothing_ to help me—your father just stood by and—”

“I said, shut UP!” Sylvain yells, pointing the tip of his lance to Miklan’s throat. Byleth could have sworn Dimitri was injured from the pained look on his face.

Once their leader is threatened, the thieves begin to fight back. Edelgard and Hubert hold their own against them as Dorothea and Felix draw their swords and join in. All Byleth can see is the Lance of Ruin, left abandoned and unattended on the floor amidst the fighting. She moves toward it, reaching out…

“Don’t you dare, Byleth!” Sothis screams at her. “Can you really be that stupid? That is what we are trying to _avoid_!”

Byleth realizes the goddess is right, but not before one of the thieves slips in between the clashing blades and takes hold of the lance. It glows red and pulses dangerously in his hand as he swings it at Dimitri, who, even with his strength, is barely able to parry the blow. He’s knocked off-balance and nearly trips over himself. Byleth moves in and parries the next swing of the lance. The two Relics are locked together, and instead of pulling away or pushing off the weapon, she attempts to reach with her free hand and grab the shaft of the lance.

_Maybe… if I could get enough of a hold on it, I could disarm him… before…_

Black sludge begins to ooze out of the point of the lance. It crawls down the weapon quickly, seeping over the thief’s hands. Byleth pulls hers away just in time, pushing the lance off her blade and stepping back. The thief cries out in horror as the sludge encircles his arms—it looks as though he tries to drop the Relic, to shake it out of his hands, even. But it’s as if the dark substance binds the weapon to him despite his attempts to rid himself of it.

His screams grow in intensity as the black sludge seeps into his ears and eyes. He drops to the ground and begins twitching and convulsing. Eventually the screaming stops as he begins gurgling on the sludge as it pours into his mouth. The other thieves take notice, and so do the students. Byleth shouts at everyone to fall back to the staircase, but no matter how many times she screams at them to _move_ , many of them do not, paralyzed by fear of what was unfolding before their eyes.

The thief’s body is now completely consumed by the sludge, the screaming replaced by a grotesque bubbling and crackling as the black mass expands rapidly, morphing into a demonic beast. The monstrosity roars and swipes with its claws, grabbing one of the thieves and crumples him like a piece of parchment. The other thieves make a run for it.

Byleth steps forward and unfurls the Sword of the Creator, swinging along the floor like a whip to knock the beast off it’s balance. Hubert follows up with a powerful Death Γ spell, cracking some of the scales on its back. The demonic beast growls as the stench of dark magic fills the area. Edelgard and Caspar bolt forward to attack one of its hind legs, but all they manage to do is aggravate it further. They’re shaken off like nothing, flung backward as they tumble across the room. Mercedes rushes over to them, the glow of healing magic in her hands.

“I told you to stay back!” Byleth screams at her, but her voice is drowned out by the howl of the demonic beast. “Mercedes!”

The beast rears, an orange glow emanating from its chest. _There’s no way I can make it over to her in time_ , she realizes. Byleth prepares to use a pulse, but then Gilbert dashes ahead, his shield glowing white as he crouches beside Mercedes, pulling her down behind his shield. The flames unfurl from the beast’s jaws, but the Ward spell protects them both. He ushers her toward the staircase to tend to Edelgard and Caspar’s wounds as the others try and fail to deal enough of a blow to the beast.

“It’s _scales_ ,” Byleth yells. “Use magic to break its scales, then attack!”

Hubert casts another spell, and Annette steps forward and deals one right after. The beast howls in pain as more of its scales crack and splinter down its back. It swipes with its claws again out of retaliation, but this time, Felix is in the crosshairs. He yelps as the beast’s talons begin to crush him. Dimitri thrusts his lance through the arm of the beast, causing it to recoil and drop Felix. However, it brings the prince, who still has a hold on his lance, along with it.

Dimitri lets go of his weapon, falling to the ground with a thud a few yards away from Felix who is bleeding profusely—his white shirt now completely soaked red on his right side.

Though Byleth is spearheading an attack on the beast’s underbelly with Dedue and Petra, she sees the swordsman and prince fall to the ground one after the other. She sees Dimitri push himself up to his knees and hears him call out after his childhood friend.

She doesn’t see Felix move an inch.

The beast saunters forward, and Byleth’s blade slips out of the the creature as she and the others readjust to avoid being trampled. She glances over at Felix again. At the red everywhere. She doesn’t know what exactly happened, but she knows that it’s not good. She should use a Divine Pulse, but her precarious position doesn’t afford her enough time and security to pulse back.

“Dimitri!” she calls out as she whips the Sword of the Creator around the beast’s tail. He looks over at her as he stumbles while trying to gain his footing again. “Get him back to Linhardt and Mercedes! Now!”

He nods and scrambles over to his fallen house mate. Byleth swallows and redirects her attention back onto the beast. They are close—the beast is starting to grow weary, black muck dripping and oozing from every swing of a blade.

 _Felix will be okay_ , she tells herself. _I still have all of my Divine Pulses if need be, and we almost have the beast. We’ll be fine, we’ll be fine…_ She dodges a swipe from the beast, though barely.

“Stay focused, or you won’t be able to use a Pulse when you need one for _yourself,_ you fool!” Sothis snaps at her.

The beast rears again, readying itself to breathe fire upon her students who are battered and fatigued. Byleth surveys the room and spies Ashe notching an arrow.

“It’s chest,” she yells, her voice hoarse. “It’s chest, Ashe, it’s chest!”

The archer looks up at the beast staring down at him. He raises his bow and aims at the fiery glow in its chest. Sucking in a breath, he releases the arrow and watches as it pierces through the soft flesh there. The beast staggers a moment, then collapses on the ground. Byleth moves over to it and swings her blade down on its neck—a final, definitive blow. The Sword of the Creator drips with the black gunk from the beast, and more of it bleeds out over the floor, pooling in the cracks between the stone.

Slowly, the body of the beast evaporates, leaving behind the thief. Sylvain kneels down and checks for a pulse—he shakes his head as he finds none. Byleth wipes clean the blade of her sword on the fabric of her cloak. She looks up and does a headcount; though not in the best shape, everyone was present and accounted for—except for one.

“Where’s Miklan?”

She seeks out Dedue and Ferdinand; the latter has dried blood caked all over his nose and lips. “What in the goddess’ name happened to you? You need to go to the healers.”

“Sorry, Professor. Miklan… got away in the commotion,” Ferdinand says, wincing while he talks. Dorothea walks over and tuts at the sight of her classmate.

“Oh, Ferdie. Looks like he also got _you_ pretty good before he escaped,” she observes, her voice teasing but her touch gentle on his cheek and nose that’s starting to bruise. “I’ll take him to Lin and Mercie, Professor. They’ll get him all patched up.”

The pair walks away toward the staircase to join the others. Byleth sighs, sheathing the Sword of the Creator. She glances out of one of the tower’s windows at the darkening sky and the rain that had just started to fall in a steady drizzle. Dedue places a firm, reassuring hand on her shoulder; she doesn’t smile, only nods at him, and he walks away, too.

Byleth stands there for a while as the rain patters on sill of the window.

“Hey, Professor,” Sylvain says quietly. She doesn’t turn to look. “We’re ready to take the thieves to my father… so whenever you’re ready. We have to leave soon for us to make it there and back to the monastery before nightfall.”

Byleth nods. She senses Sylvain still standing there. Still waiting.

“Felix is gonna be OK, too,” he adds before heading down the staircase.

The rain outside picks up and lightning flashes in the distance. _At least only the blood of one soaked the earth today._

  
  


* * *

“Ah, Professor Byleth. You have returned safely, I am happy to hear,” Seteth says as Byleth enters the audience chamber. She smiles up at the advisor, but he notices she is alone. “Lady Rhea, where are Manuela and Gilbert?” he asks. _Shouldn’t they be here for the debrief?_ he thinks.

“They will not be attending, Seteth,” she whispers under her breath. “I only need to speak to Professor Byleth.”

He had read in Gilbert’s report of what had transpired at Conand Tower. One of the bandits attempted to use the Relic and transformed into a Black Beast. And in the aftermath, Miklan, the disowned son of House Gautier and the leader of the thieves, escaped... and one of the Blue Lions sustained life threatening injuries. While the Beast was defeated and the Lance ultimately retrieved, suffice to say, the mission wasn’t entirely a success.

“And you,” Rhea adds.

Seteth winces as Byleth steps before them.

“Professor, I too am grateful that the goddess has blessed you with her divine protection. I have received report on your mission. I am… _dismayed_ to see that you were unsuccessful in capturing Miklan,” Rhea lectured, the irritation evident in her tone of voice. “And, I must also express my disappointment that the thieves you captured were returned to Margrave Gautier instead of the monastery.”

“With all due respect, Lady Rhea… I am certain that the Professor did not know th—”

“Silence, Seteth. Surely, you briefed the Professor on the mission details. It is _your_ responsibility to do so, after all.”

Seteth stiffens. Perhaps he had forgotten those details. _Or perhaps Byleth had chosen to ignore that mission directive_ , which he feels is the most likely scenario given her previous comments. While he would never admit it to the archbishop, he doesn’t particularly _disagree_ with Byleth’s choice to entrust the punishment of the thieves to the Margrave.

It was Miklan who stole the Relic—that alone is a crime punishable by the Church, therefore _he_ alone should be brought to them. It would be a waste of resources to jail and punish the entire band of thieves for general thieving across the Kingdom. Especially since the Church’s resources are better spent on the uprisings in the Western Church and the mysterious people coming and going from the monastery at night.

Though all wonderful things to consider, Seteth doesn’t dare question or argue with the archbishop. Not today, at least.

“Professor, please see to it that you keep what transpired at Conand Tower to yourself. All regions of Fódlan would fall into chaos should rumors spread of one using Relic and transforming into a monster,” the archbishop explains, her voice stern. “We must avoid that at all costs. Seteth, you will assist the Professor in ensuring the students who accompanied the mission understand that as well. Have I made myself clear?”

Seteth perks up at the sound of his name and nods in agreement. He looks ahead at Byleth who does the same.

“His transformation into a Black Beast was nothing short of divine punishment from the goddess… a punishment fitting for someone arrogant and foolish enough to use a Hero’s Relic despite being unworthy and unqualified.”

“So you _knew_ this would happen?” Byleth asks, the look in her eyes fierce. An anxious feeling prickles inside Seteth’s chest at her challenging words. _Will she ever heed my advice?_ he wonders to himself.

“Of course, Professor. That is why we rushed to recover it. Though, sadly, it appears we did not arrive in time,” Rhea explains, folding her hands in front of her. “This is why I ask that you return the Lance of Ruin to the Church so we can prevent such an incident from happening again.”

“I will not.”

_Not today, it seems. Not today, indeed._

Seteth flinches as the doors to the audience chamber swing open unannounced. In walks the younger Gautier boy.

“What is the meaning of this?” Rhea demands.

Sylvain clears his throat. “My apologies for interrupting, Lady Rhea,” he says with a bow. “I am so thankful for your assistance in recovering my family’s Relic. That being said, I am here to receive the lance. My father has given me direct approval to take possession of it.”

Seteth glances over at the archbishop. Her hands are folded around each other so tightly that her knuckles are white. They even seem to tremble. The intensity of her stare causes him to look away—he thinks it’s remarkable that the Gautier heir and the Professor are able to withstand that look of hers.

“Very well. I will allow it,” she decides reluctantly. Her jaw clenches. “However, I have one condition. As the next head of House Gautier, you must swear to me that you will never allow another to wield this lance… and that you will never raise it against the Church or any of its believers.”

“On my family’s name…” Sylvain pledges with a bow, “and on my brother’s life. I swear it.”

* * *

His arm fucking hurts. Manuela says that he is lucky that the claws of that demonic beast or _whatever_ that hellish thing was back in Conand Tower didn’t tear his arm clean off. It only nearly made him bleed out, instead. _But at least my arm’s still here_ , Felix thinks to himself as he lay on what is probably the most uncomfortable cot in the entire infirmary.

"Hey, hopefully this will cheer you up, a little."

Felix flops his head over on the pillow in the direction of the small voice to see the von Ordelia girl. The _thing_ that’s supposed to cheer him up looks like a small cake, and she practically thrusts it in his face to punctuate her offer.

Instead, he sighs and lets his head fall back over to stare at the wall, disinterested. "I hate sweets," he mumbles.

"How can you hate sweets?" she gasps, the offense evident in her voice. _How can someone be upset about not liking cake?_ _Ugh._

"I just do, OK? I don't ever eat them."

"How can you not like something you've never tried?"

Felix huffs. _She is persistent,_ he notes, squeezing his eyes shut once she moves around to the other side of his bed to face him, taking a seat on the cot opposite his. _That stupid cake in her hands still... Why can’t this girl take a hint?_

"What are you going to do about your arm?” Lysithea asks as if he didn’t just completely ignore her last question. “You can't fight without it.”

"Thanks for reminding me of the obvious,” Felix snaps. “There's nothing I can do except wait for it to heal. That’s what Manuela told me."

Lysithea hums in thought. Felix hears her tap her shoes on the floor and it’s _so annoying_. "Or you could learn some magic—you don't need both arms to do that!"

He cracks one of his eyes open to look at her before closing it again. "No, I hate magic. I'm terrible at it,” he says gruffly. She just clicks her tongue at him in response.

"There you go again… have you ever even _tried_ magic?"

Felix finally opens his eyes. He shakes his head once and she laughs at him, much to his chagrin.

"Hmm, that is rather obvious, don't you think? You are _failing_ your class with Hanneman right now,” she remarks plainly.

"How do you—" he begins, his voice equal parts defensive and displeased. _Ugh, this is why I didn’t want visitors._ "Yes, I told you I'm bad at magic. That's _why_ I hate it.” He shoots her an icy glare that he hopes reads like _go away_. Of course he’s bad at magic—he learned to swing a sword before he learned to read or write.

"Ever try to practice and get better at it?" Lysithea asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No…”

“Perhaps I could teach you a thing or two, huh, Felix?”

Lysithea sits on the edge of the cot across from him, her head tilted with the most smug look on her face. Felix thinks she looks like an owl, perched there and mocking him—satisfied that she succeeded in backing an injured man into a corner. _She’s only doing this to laugh at me, I swear..._

“Only if you’ll stop waving that cake in my face,” he says sharply, turning his head on his pillow to look up at the ceiling. “It’s not like I have anything else I can do as long as I’m stuck here.”

* * *

“Hey, Teach!” Claude greets, standing up to pull out a chair at the table for her. “So Linhardt here was just telling me all about your mission.”

Byleth levels her gaze at the green-haired mage across the table, steely and piercing. “Did he, now?” she says with a clench of her jaw, each word measured. “I _thought_ I told everyone that Rhea ordered us not to share the details of the mission with anyone.”

All the mage does in response is yawn. “I felt it was applicable to our research, Professor. Besides, how long would it really remain a secret between us,” he says, waving to the three of them. She folds her arms and presses her lips into a thin line.

“If Teach is mad at you for this, Lin… I can’t _imagine_ how pissed she’s gonna be when she finds out about the other thing. You should probably just come clean now and tell her about your little research thingy you did today.”

“What _other thing_?” Byleth looks between the two boys at the table. Claude tries to suppress his laughter, but once he sees the downright lethal look that she was giving them, a nervous quiet falls over him. Linhardt—the one in question—rolls his eyes before smashing his forehead into his palm.

“I was just… After the mission…” the mage ponders how exactly he’s going to address his professor, worrying his chin with his thumb. “Do you think Miklan actually believed he would wield the Lance of Ruin?”

Byleth folds her hands on the table, her face beginning to hurt from her jaw clenching. The stress of the last few days makes her impatient at best, so dealing with this was more grating than usual. Rhea’s upset at her for more than one reason—a feeling that doesn’t sit well with her at all—and though Miklan survived, he _escaped_ , which could lead to a whole host of unknowns as Sothis keeps reminding her. Felix probably will remind her of that, too— _when I actually get around to visit him_ , she thinks to herself.

Suffice to say, speculating about Miklan’s motives was the last thing she has time for. And hardly the _thing_ Linhardt has been up to.

“I doubt it,” she says dryly. “But you’re avoiding my question. What’s the other thing?”

Linhardt just continues talking about Miklan and the Gautier Relic as if he didn’t hear Byleth ask again. “I don’t think he, or _any_ of us, knew that someone would turn into a monster like one of his merry men did… what a strange and terrifying power. You read myths about dragons, but I’ve never come across anything about monsters like that, not even in fables or children’s stories!”

“There used to be a great many records regarding the dark history of the Heroes’ Relics,” an elderly voice interjects. The three of them look up to see Tomas standing cheerfully at the end of their table. Linhardt is caught so much by surprise that he nearly falls out of his chair. “Ah, I did not intend to frighten you, young von Hevring!” he says, helping the mage back into his seat. “I am sorry to intrude… I simply heard you speaking of the Relics. Stories of misfortune have followed the Relics since ancient times.”

“Just caught us by surprise, that’s all,” Claude chimes in. “Say, you said there used to be records?”

“Indeed. The story often told is that Nemesis was corrupted by evil because of the Sword of the Creator,” Tomas nods to the ancient blade on Byleth’s hip. “Yet, there were other Heroes that lost themselves by continuing to use the Relics… their souls twisted and their bodies transformed into Black Beasts. But those stories have long been destroyed, all across Fódlan. Stripped from their shelves, including those that resided at this very library.”

“Why would the Church get rid of those stories? They would be invaluable to Fódlan’s crest research!” Linhardt exclaims.

“Not only that, but it sounds like these stories are part of the fabric of Fódlan’s history. You make it sound like the church is covering up th—” Claude yelps as he’s kicked by Byleth under the table. He gives her a questioning look and she stares back at him, urging him to stop talking. _He doesn’t know that this man is the enemy. An enemy… that’s willingly giving_ me _this information? Me—the same person he tries to lock away in the darkness?_

“Again, I am sorry to intrude. It seemed like you were searching for answers about the Relics. What is a librarian if not a guide in the search for truth and knowledge?” Tomas laughs. The sound makes Byleth’s skin crawl. “And not only have you been searching, but you’re doing so through the night.”

The librarian looks pointedly at the two boys. “I would suggest you stop before the _Knights_ notice. But enough meddling for today. Be sure to clean up after you’re finished here and get back to your rooms safely!”

After Tomas makes his exit, Claude sighs in relief and Linhardt seems lost in his own thoughts—Byleth, too. _The Sword of the Creator corrupted Nemesis? Will the same thing that happened to Miklan… to that man… will it happen to me?_ She glances down at the sword on her hip.

“So, we’ve been found out, haven’t we, Lin?” Claude asks, giving the mage a nudge with his elbow as he mumbles his agreement.

“What do you mean you’ve been found out?” Byleth demands, her irritation prickling through her voice and etched into the line on her forehead. “You both have been acting like you’re hiding something from me since I sat down.”

Claude hums and throws one of his charming grins in her direction. “Don’t misunderstand, Teach. We’ve been _saving_ something for you.”

They tell her about a library they stumbled upon—although, Claude described it with that mischievous look on his face, so Byleth is fairly certain that it _wasn’t_ by chance that they happened upon an entire library. Claude also insists that in order to bring her to this library, they needed to meet Hilda at Byleth’s quarters. Though bewildered and thoroughly vexed, she agrees to go along with whatever Claude’s scheme is.

Byleth is quick to protest when they meet up with Hilda. “If this… _place…_ has anything to do with… _what we were talking about…_ I don’t think it’s the best idea,” Byleth stumbles over her words, trying not to disclose too much, but also unsure of how much Hilda has been told already.

“Don’t worry yourself, my friend!” Claude claps Byleth on the back of her shoulder. “We can trust Hilda. She’s going to be keeping watch for us so we don’t get caught like last time. Isn’t that right, Lin?”

 _The last time?_ Byleth’s mind reels. _And can we_ really _trust Hilda? The girl can’t even be relied on for the simplest of tasks…Oh, goddess…_

“Does she know… about…” Byleth trails off.

“About Linhardt’s research? Of _course_ I do, Professor! I think it’s _super_ interesting,” Hilda gushes. For a moment, Byleth is thankful that Sothis is off doing something else this evening—she doesn’t think she can take the goddess’ yelling on top of everything else. “You can count on me, Professor,” she says, grabbing one of Byleth’s hands in her own. “I _promise_. The boys caught me up on everything. The plan tonight will go on without a hitch!”

_If I were to use a Divine Pulse… gah, I wouldn’t even know how far to pulse back!_

Something catches Hilda’s eye down the courtyard in front of the dormitory, and she ushers all of them inside Byleth’s room. She holds a finger up to her lips, gesturing them to be quiet, then practically skips out of the room and down the front of the dorms. They can hear the sing-song of her voice through the opening in the door.

“What in the goddess’ name is going on, Claude,” Byleth hisses. She watches as he peeks out through the crack between the door and the frame.

“To make sure the Knights don’t catch us going where we’re not supposed to…” he says, pushing the door open the tiniest bit. “Hilda is going to _distract_ the lovely Knight on patrol this evening. Now, c’mon!” He grabs her forearm and drags her behind him out of the room, Linhardt following not far behind. They fly down the steps and round the corner to the gap between her room and the stone staircase up to the sauna. Linhardt pushes the wall of stone before them, causing a hidden door to swing open. 

“Wha—”

Claude shushes her as he practically shoves her and Linhardt inside. He leans back against the door to seal it shut once more, breathing a heavy sigh. Linhardt conjures a ball of light in his palm to brighten the dark corridor and the seemingly endless staircase down into the depths beneath Garreg Mach.

“Alright, down we go,” Linhardt says, leading the way.

When they arrive in the library, she feels an unease inside her chest. As the boys show her the forbidden books shoved haphazardly onto the towering shelves, she can’t quite shake the feeling that she has seen this before… that she has stood here before. Byleth paces across the creaking floorboards of the underground library. _I’ve been here before… haven’t I?_

Linhardt shows Claude some crudely drawn maps that he found tucked away in one of the decrepit books; neither of them notice Byleth venturing out of the library and down the damp subterranean tunnel. As the glow from the library fades, Byleth sustains a small fire spell in her palm to act as a torch to illuminate her path.

There’s more than just this one tunnel, Byleth discovers. Some tunnels turn into staircases that descend even lower beneath the monastery. Some tunnels lead to rooms, though they are all mostly empty of anything except garbage and broken wooden crates. Everything is damp and cool—a lovely respite from the hot summer days. But it’s disorienting to be so alone and lost.

Her footsteps echo around her, her likeness reflecting in the puddles of water on the ground. She has no idea how long it would take her to find her way back to the underground library. _Had Claude and Linhardt noticed I had gone? Are they looking for me?_

Byleth turns into another room, though this one appears less abandoned. The room is relatively clean, compared to the other ones she’d seen—no garbage or discarded and broken items. There is a stack of crates toward the back of the room, but they are in good condition. A large piece of fabric is draped over the stack, obscuring the crates and everything underneath.

_Look._

The same type of feeling Byleth had earlier in the library bubbles up in her again. This time, though, the feeling urges her to step forward into the room. It’s an itch that she feels compelled to scratch. She approaches the stack of crates and the feeling intensifies like a buzzing in her ear, a tightness in her chest.

_Look._

_Look look look._

With her free hand, she reaches out and touches the canvas material draped over the crates. She recoils for a moment as her fingertips sting with a white hot tingling sensation.

_Look look look look look._

Byleth curls her hand around the edge of the fabric and takes a deep breath, the faintest aroma of vanilla in the air. She draws the canvas back and holds the spell in her other hand up to get a better look at what lies underneath the fabric. The ringing in her ears worsens.

_Look look look._

_Look._

_Byleth._

Then, the ringing stops.

Moving the canvas reveals a woman laying atop the crates. She appears to be asleep, her hands folded delicately on her stomach. The white of her dress is smudged with dust and dirt, though Byleth thinks that is to come when one decides to nap in a place like this. The woman’s hair falls down in tousled waves, cascading over the edge of the crate where she lay her head. Her eyes are closed, her expression… peaceful.

Her expression…

Byleth decides it’s best to wake the sleeping woman—that this is a terrible place to sleep, and she could help the woman find her way out of these tunnels. She reaches out and touches the woman’s shoulder, giving her a small shake.

The woman does not wake.

She tries shaking again, but once more, the woman does not wake. Byleth realizes the woman’s skin is cold underneath her touch. She realizes her hands are rigid. She realizes… her chest does not rise and fall. Wrapping her fingers around the woman’s wrist, she realizes the woman has no pulse. Just like...

_Byleth._

_Look._

Cool metal kisses the skin on her neck. When Byleth swallows, she feels the sharpness of a blade pressing into her flesh just enough for her to understand the gravity of her present situation. She withdraws her hand from the woman’s body. An arm snakes around her, gripping her right wrist and pulling it sharply behind her—immobilizing and preventing her hand from wrapping around the handle of her blade.

She feels lips press and curl against her ear from behind. “What brings the Ashen Demon down here?”

Time shatters into scintillating shards that float about the unmoving world around her, tinged with a glowing violet hue. Byleth moves out of the grasp of her captor, now frozen in this moment of time. She takes a breath to steady herself, her fingertips dancing over the spot where the blade pressed against her throat. She spins around to look at her captor.

“So it _is_ you.”

She nearly falls backward into the stack of crates. _Did he just… speak?_

Panic floods her veins. Surely she was just hearing things—no one other than her and Sothis can move about through a moment in time. But the man begins to step toward her. Byleth stumbles back; she had never—in this life or the last—felt sheer dread like she feels now.

The man has lavender hair and eyes that seem to smolder in the luminescence of the shards of time drifting around them. He smirks at her as she backs away from him. “Though you’re no _demon_ , it appears…”

Byleth backs into a wall, and as he closes the gap between them, she feels paralyzed by fear and a dozen other emotions that are foreign to her. She prays that this all just a dream as she reaches for her sword. Her hands are trembling so badly that she can’t get a proper grip on the handle of her blade.

“You run away now, but I’m certain that our paths will cross again,” he says, his voice teasing and dangerous. He presses the blade of his dagger against the wrist of her sword hand. “Perhaps then I can better determine if I should call you friend or foe.”

She scrunches her eyes shut and with a sharp intake of breath, completes her pulse back. Byleth feels and hears the woosh of time knitting back together. Opening her eyes, she’s back in the underground library. Claude and Linhardt are flipping through tomes while continuing their playful ribbing of each other. Her hand is still curled around the Sword of the Creator, and it stays there, poised to draw the blade as she spins around looking for any sight of the man with the dagger.

“Hey Teach! You alright?” Claude asks, his voice echoing across the library. “You look a little pale, my friend.”

She offers a weak smile. “I’m fine,” she assures him.

_Am I?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fffffftttttttttt
> 
> :)
> 
> So just a few things...
> 
> Work is still a little hectic for me, but I should be able to release new chapters about twice a month as I have been. Hopefully that is okay! Writing this fic has been an amazing way for me to de-stress from my job, so even if I'm stuck at the office all day, I do try to dedicate even just 30 minutes a day to writing.
> 
> Also, _Much Ado About Nothing,_ is probably my favorite Shakespeare work. (Well... maybe my favorite lighthearted work. ) And I can 800% stand behind Claude reciting some lines from that play. I'm not sure if he'd be the _best_ Claudio, but I think he would make a better Benedick. (o_ _)ﾉ彡☆
> 
> Oop, one last thing--here's a playlist for this fic, if you're at all interested: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3MUs4LXhnCF6yocJaqXOFG  
> See y'all in the next chapter~


	6. The Hierophant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri hits a professor. Edelgard gives a warning. Jertiza is not in the mood to spar. Felix has unwanted company. Ferdinand can’t believe his eyes. Lysithea finds a rock. Byleth gets cozy.
> 
> “Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.”  
>  _-King Lear, 1.5.38_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little late, but I'm back with another chapter! It's extra long to make up for my absence this month. I won't dwell too long on this, but there's a lot of uncertainty in our world right now. I work in healthcare, and I have had front-row seats as the situation has unfolded over the past few weeks. I hope and pray that all of you are safe--may this fic offer a little bit of escape to you, as it has for me.
> 
> Thanks as always for your kudos & comments -- they make my day ♡
> 
> I also made a playlist of the songs that inspire me for this fic; [here's the link so you can listen, too!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3MUs4LXhnCF6yocJaqXOFG)

“About time you showed up. I was starting to think you forgot about me.”

When Byleth finally drops by the infirmary, Felix is sitting up on his cot and reading some book Lysithea left for him. Well, he’s trying to, at least. It’s a book of alchemical equations, and the hell if he knows how one is supposed to learn how to cast spells from the disarray of random letters and symbols on the page.

Like he told the girl, magic is not his strong suit. Trying to make sense of the garbage on the pages of this book reaffirms that it probably will remain that way.

Byleth is a welcome distraction.

“I am sorry to make you worry, Felix,” she mutters, handing him a plate of steaming grilled meat and vegetables. He quickly tosses the book to the foot of his bed in favor of the plate of food. “I’ve been meaning to visit. But I also–I just… didn’t think you would want to see me.”

She drags a chair over the side of his cot and sits while he tucks into his food.

“Well, if you keep bringing me these skewers, of course I’d want you to visit,” he responds mid-chew. She hums and nods and just looks so damn _sad._ It bothers him. Felix finishes his bite and clears his throat. “And me, worrying? Hardly how I’ve been passing my time stuck in this place.”

He tells her about how he tried to leave a few nights ago, but was caught by one of Manuela’s assistants. The next morning, she told him if he tried to leave early again, she’d add another week to his bed rest. Byleth manages a smile at his story, and Felix takes that as a small win.

“All these visitors… Mercedes and Annette keep bringing me pastries and I’m not exactly allowed to just leave the room when Sylvain won’t stop prattling on,” Felix groans. “And don’t get me started on my old man… Ugh.”

“Dimitri’s told me that he has visited you a few times,” Byleth mentions. Felix slows his chewing for a moment before swallowing his bite.

“He _would_ tell you that. And a few times? More like _every day._ Just sits there and looks all sad and shit… he should be training or bothering _you_ or something that’s not _bothering me.”_

“He’s _worried_ about you, Felix. I’m sure he feels bad for what happened.”

“ _You_ feel bad for what happened,” he quips, putting his skewer back down on his plate. Byleth looks up over at him, eyes as fierce as fire as her brow knits together. He knows what she’s going to say next, but he’s ready to quell her rebuttal.

“I could have—”

“There’s nothing you could have done. It just happened,” he says simply. Having his sword arm nearly torn off isn’t exactly one of those things that just _happen_ any given day, sure. But there’s no way anyone can predict the movements of a demonic black beast—not even Byleth.

“Felix, I can go back.”

_Ay, there’s the rub._

“Don’t,” he tells her firmly. “You’ll pulse back and what? Trade places with me and sit in this goddess forsaken infirmary instead?”

“If it means none of my students are hurt, then yes.”

Felix makes an exasperated noise. If his arm didn’t hurt so fucking bad still, he would grab the woman by her shoulders and shake some sense into her. “It’s not worth it, Byleth. The beast is dead. Thanks to you and Sylvain, his father got the Relic back instead of the Church. And all Miklan’s thieves are in shackles and facing trial instead of being… well, dead, as Rhea would rather have them.”

“But your arm,” she protests. “And Miklan escaped.”

“Miklan escaped, but he’s _alive..._ and believe me, he’ll screw up again. We’ll catch him then. And my arm will heal. Hopefully before the Battle of the Eagle and Lion,” he adds. Dimitri was the one to mention the upcoming House Battle to him during one of his pity-party visits. Since then, Felix has been determined to heal his arm as quickly as possible… even if that means obeying Manuela’s orders eventually.

Byleth nods.

“But even if it’s not fully healed, I’ll still be able to fight. Check this out,” he says. Felix casts a spell—nothing fancy, just a basic Fire spell. A small flame ignites in the air above his open hand; it flickers as he tries to sustain it, but it fizzles out in his palm. He tries to cast the spell again, but only tiny sparks emit from his fingers instead.

“Damn,” he grumbles.

Byleth giggles.

Felix thought him learning magic from Lysithea would make for interesting conversation, but Byleth’s tales certainly outdo his. She tells him about the underground library and tunnels… about the body she found and the purple-haired man with the dagger who found _her…_ about her pulse back and how the purple-haired man was able to walk and talk despite time being frozen. Shit sounded like it was straight out one of Mercedes’ favorite scary stories, so he can’t blame Byleth for still being shaken about the whole thing.

“What did Sothis have to say about all this?”

He can’t see the goddess, but he knows of her existence. Sometimes she floats around Byleth and nags her… or at least that’s what Byleth told him. _It must be happening now,_ he thinks, based on the downright annoyed look on her scrunched-up face. 

“She wasn’t with me when all this happened,” Byleth starts, then rolls her eyes… presumably at the goddess. “But she said it wouldn’t be best to go down there again. It wouldn’t be safe if that person has the ability to move through time like me.”

Felix laughs to himself. “Well, I would say it’s all the _more_ reason to go down there and find that dastard.”

  
  


* * *

While Felix isn't among the students at today's swords class, Byleth is pleasantly surprised to see a few new faces. Petra and Ferdinand arrive, chatting happily with each other; and so does Claude, who strolls in and immediately greets Sylvain. She catches bits and pieces of their conversation, but it's evident that Dimitri was subjected to the full extent of their tales as he turns red from embarrassment. He stands there awkwardly, hearing his friend recount last night's escapades.

She chuckles and paces over to him as she scribbles down names for attendance into her notebook. "Pay them no mind, Dimitri," she says, giving his shoulder a gentle pat.

"It's difficult not to mind them when they are so vulgar and offensive," Lorenz chimes in, folding his arms. He looks at Claude with an irritated expression.

"You're just jealous that girls actually accept my invitations, Lorenz," the leader of the Golden Deer laughs back.

"That's absurd—"

Sylvain interrupts him this time. "Maybe the ladies like it when I'm vulgar and offensive." He raises his eyebrows suggestively at Dorothea who rolls her eyes at him in return. 

"OK, that's enough," Byleth cuts them off before they can continue to squabble. She sets down her notebook by the weapons rack and grabs two of the training swords. "Today's lesson will focus on distance and timing. It may sound simple enough, but striking at the right time is key. And, remaining at the proper distance to actually hit your opponent while also protecting yourself from a blow is a skill in itself that takes practice and discipline to master."

She walks over to one of the training dummies she had placed in the center of training grounds. Before class, she had made a few modifications to them for today's lesson. Byleth sticks one of the wooden swords into the body of the dummy, then gives it a spin. It twirls around like a top.

"As you can see, our first exercise will be these dummies. The spinning dummy will require you to consider proper distance to not be struck by its sword," she explains, stepping too close to demonstrate. The dummy's sword hits Byleth in the shoulder, causing the entire apparatus to shudder and come to a standstill.

She gives it another spin. "While also forcing you to exercise timing to safely strike," she continues, darting forward to give the dummy a whack with her training sword.

"There's only three dummies... so pair up, and three groups will start with the dummies while the other two pairs will practice hand-to-hand," she says, motioning to the group of students. "Then we'll rotate so everyone gets a chance to drill with a dummy. Understood?"

They nod and pair off. Ferdinand looks dejected that Dorothea and Petra choose each other, but quickly perks up when Dimitri offers to be his partner. Naturally Claude and Sylvain pair up, and Byleth is glad to see Marianne has stuck around for the drills, pairing up with Lorenz.

The leader of the Black Eagles selects her retainer as her partner, to no surprise. Hubert, who has been standing with arms crossed at the very back of the group, chuckles darkly. Edelgard frowns at him, but he speaks anyway.

"All of this because Fraldarius couldn't maintain a safe distance between himself and that beast?"

Byleth tries her best to still her expression and keep it neutral despite the irritation bristling inside of her. Her nails dig into the wood of the training sword still in her hand. She opens her mouth to speak, but of all people, Dorothea beats her to it.

"C'mon Hubie, like that was even his fault!" she monishes, throwing him a disappointed look.

"Perhaps he needs to be at these drills, then," Hubert quips back.

"He's _hurt_ and in the infirmary, and you're really going to bring him into this?" Sylvain demands, pushing past Claude to interject. Byleth thinks for a moment that she might have to intervene to prevent the tall redhead from throwing a punch, he looks that upset.

"But if he worked on his _distance_ and _timing_ , perhaps he could have prevented his fate... as our Professor suggests."

"Hubert, that's—" Edelgard interjects.

"It was a fucking _beast,_ you asshole," Sylvain seethes. He's heading right toward the dark haired mage.

"It was," Hubert replies coolly, "Thanks to your brother not being able to keep his hands off the family Relic, isn't that right? Oh, do they even consider him a Gautier anymore? My mistake..." He sneers at Sylvain as he shuffles the princess behind him against her verbal protests.

Dorothea covers her mouth to silence a gasp and Marianne looks like she's about to burst into tears. A tense quiet falls over the group as Sylvain approaches Hubert, his hands curled up into fists at his sides.

" _Don't_ bring my family into this."

The blonde prince steps forward and lays a firm hand on the back of his friend’s shoulder. “Sylvain, let’s just continue with the lesson,” Dimitri urges him, but the taller man shakes him off.

“You’re right, I don’t have to bring up your family,” Hubert tilts his chin up slightly and stares down at the Blue Lion before him. They were practically nose to nose now. 

“Enough, you two!” Byleth shouts. She hands off her training sword to Lorenz and steps forward, ready to pull the two apart before they are at each other's throats. Everything that happens next is a blur.

Hubert laughs. “I only have to mention your little sword-swinging friend and _everyone_ gets all worked up.”

“You can’t even _hold_ a sword, you fucking t—”

Sylvain lunges for Hubert, his hands barely making purchase on the front of his uniform jacket. Neither of them notice or realize their Professor moving into the fray to separate them. The tall mage looks smugly down at Sylvain from under the fringe of his hair, unmoving despite everything. It is almost like he accepted his fate as a punching bag for the Gautier heir—or perhaps he never planned on receiving a blow from the man he angered so.

It’s actually the Faerghus prince that saves Hubert from Sylvain’s grasp. Dimitri throws his arms around his friend’s, restraining him and pulling him back before he can take hold of the mage. In that movement, the broad side of Dimitri’s gauntlets knocks into the side of Byleth’s face inadvertently.

The scuffle stops once their Professor stumbles onto her knees. Byleth doesn’t remember much after that, except someone’s hands on her back—Hubert’s or Sylvain’s… she couldn’t tell. She looks down at the ground in an attempt to collect herself and sees a few droplets of blood patter onto the dust and dirt on the ground. Her eyes flutter shut, and then…

They open again to the same training grounds. But she blinks in disbelief; Hubert and Sylvain aren’t there fighting. Marianne isn’t crying. Instead of her students, it’s a group of young children before her. They are paired off and swinging wooden swords in spars with one another.

And there was… _Dimitri?_

His officer’s cape flutters in the breeze, a ripple of cobalt behind him. He stoops down and adjusts the sword in one child’s hands, smiling at them and giving them encouraging words. He stands up and looks over at Byleth.

“Professor!” he calls out to her. It’s hard for her not to mirror the smile on his face as he walks toward her. “Thank you for helping me. These orphans… this is the happiest I think I’ve seen them.”

 _It’s the happiest I think I’ve seen you,_ she thinks.

One of the children runs up to them giggling, cheeks rosy. He calls for Dimitri, grabbing his hand and dragging him along to spar with him. The golden-haired prince laughs and agrees, following the eager child. Byleth watches on as Dimitri lets the child win the match. A warmth blooms in her chest at the sight.

But then with a blink, everything changes before her eyes. The sky darkens as clouds roll in and obscure the sunlight. A chill is in the air now, and Byleth suppresses a shiver. Dimitri is now wearing a cloak appropriate for the weather—a huge thing with matted fur trim. He is still sparring with the child, it seems, but they both are older, taller… Dimitri exceptionally so. His hair is longer and unkempt, a shroud over his face.

All the other children had vanished into thin air, leaving only Dimitri and the child’s shadows to dance on the cold dirt ground. Gone are the training swords, replaced with shining metallic blades that are smudged with fingertips. Cold steel that is sharp and deadly to the touch.

A dagger flashes in the child’s hand, but before Byleth can make words, it vanishes, sinking into the back of the prince’s shoulder. The child hurries away, and Dimitri grunts as he reaches behind him and pulls the blade out. It falls to the ground, warm and wet with blood.

Byleth stands and rushes toward him, hands outstretched to embrace him, to heal him. But she simply passes right through him as if she were a phantom, falling to her knees once more. Looking over her shoulder, he’s behind her now—a dark stain on the blue of his cloak where the blade pierced his flesh.

Another blink and the scene begins to shift again, making her nauseous. Byleth places a hand on the ground to steady herself, dirt and the sharp edges of pebbles pressing into her palm.

“Papa?”

She looks up at the source of the voice—another child, a tiny thing… just barely as tall as Byleth when she’s kneeling. In her hands is a wooden training sword that is a little too big for her frame, but nothing she can’t manage… even if it makes her wobble adorably. It has delicate carving around the handle that makes the piece unique.

The child looks up at Dimitri who has his own wooden sword in hand. His bloodied cloak is replaced with a tailored cobalt jacket and a lightweight cape—reminiscent of his officers academy uniform, but more regal with golden braided detailing and epaulettes fluttering in the wind under the silver pauldron on his left shoulder. His hair is still long, but he wears it pulled back; it reveals an ear-to-ear grin and a mirthful glimmer in his eyes.

Byleth stands shakily and watches as Dimitri adjusts the wooden blade in the child’s hand.

She also finds that there’s grass under her feet instead of the gravel and stone of the training grounds. There’s a weapons rack here, but instead of sandy limestone walls, there’s ornate ragstone archways surrounding the space. The castle past the grounds looks unfamiliar to Byleth. They are certainly no longer at the monastery.

“Try it like this, sunshine,” he tells the girl. She knits her brows together with determination and nods, giving her sword another swing. Byleth smiles as the girl’s swings are stronger and more confident with the better grip on her training blade, her flaxen hair swinging with every movement. Dimitri parries each beat, as gentle as can be, but eventually lets the child land a blow on his leg.

The child beams with her victory, and Dimitri pats her head and praises her masterful sword performance. He kneels down, and the girl throws her arms around him, clinging to him and giggling.

Dimitri stands, carrying the child in one arm and the two training swords tucked under the other. As he walks away, Byleth finds herself following them toward the castle. The girl holds tight to Dimitri and rests her chin on his shoulder; she opens her eyes to look back at her. They’re so brilliant of a green that they’re almost incandescent.

Byleth jolts upright, sucking in a breath.

She’s sitting. Indoors. Her hands clutch the fabric of a quilt… _her_ quilt. She’s in her quarters, in her bed, she puts together. Her chest heaves, still gasping for air.

There’s a hand wrapped firmly around her forearm and another atop her shoulder. Black gloves and silver gauntlets. Flaxen hair. _Dimitri._

Byleth blinks.

“Your daughter,” she blurts out. “I... I saw your daughter.”

The prince gives her a flummoxed look, but after a beat manages to offer a smile. It only lasts but a second, as a perturbed look of dismay remains etched into his face. “Professor, you definitely need some more rest. You must already know that I don’t have any children,” he laughs, still ushering her to lay back down in her bed.

“No, I saw… I _saw_ her. You taught her how to hold a sword,” Byleth insists. She stares wildly at Dimitri. _Certainly it was him that I saw,_ she thinks. A sharp pain behind her eyes makes her wince, and she touches her forehead gingerly. She did see her… didn’t she? “You taught other children, too. But then… you were hurt.”

“ _You_ were hurt, Professor. Everything else must have been you dreaming,” Dimitri corrects. “I am afraid this is all my fault. I didn’t see you… I didn’t know you were in the way.” He shakes his head, letting his right hand fall from her shoulder into his lap.

 _A dream?_ Byleth tenses. _It didn’t feel like a dream… it felt as real as you and me here._ She sighs and clasps her hands together in her lap, clutching a fistful of her quilt.

“Oh… the seminar? H-Hubert… and—”

“Sylvain,” he finishes her thought. He tells her that the two ceased their fighting once she had passed out… that Marianne had healed the bruising on her cheek and bloodied nose, and that the students were all too afraid to take their professor to the infirmary and risk having to explain everything to Manuela or, goddess forbid, _Seteth._

He raises his gaze to meet hers, his eyes so intense that it almost makes Byleth dizzy. “I… You know that I would _never_ do anything to intentionally hurt you... right?”

She nods at him.

“I’m glad that you punching me in the face was an accident,” she whispers, flashing Dimitri a small grin. He laughs. Byleth uncurls one hand from her quilt and places it atop his.

  
  


* * *

"Dad?"

Byleth steps into her father's office, crossing her arms. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. He's standing over his desk, shuffling through papers and filing some away in his desk.

"Hey, kid. Alois was telling me you were looking for me," he says, looking up at her.

"I was," she replies. Her conversation with Alois the other day is still fresh in her mind. He told her a handful of stories about her father from before she was born. Alois was Jeralt's squire back when he was the captain of the Knights—the tales of her father's bravery were nothing new to Byleth. Those around the monastery simply echoed the stories she had been told by villagers during her and her father's travels across Fódlan... as well as the stories she had witnessed herself.

The tales of her father outside of battle were new to her, though. She had only ever known Jeralt as a mercenary and a parent. Sure, he had taken Byleth hunting and fishing many times growing up. But hearing Alois recount a time where her father caught not one Fódlandy, but _five_ from the Gwenhwyvar River in the dead of winter for a starving village whose harvest had a pitiful yield that year... Byleth felt like he was describing the hero in a storybook or one of the Saints in Seteth's books... not her father.

Apparently, the villagers cooked up the enormous fish to feed everyone—including Jeralt and his cohort of Knights—in an impromptu celebration of his fishing miracle. Grand festivities happen every Guardian Moon in that village still to the day, all in honor of her father's feat.

Alois most fondly remembers that day as the first time he got righteously drunk. Courtesy of Jeralt, of course.

What intrigued Byleth most, though, was Alois' description of Jeralt and her mother. About how each night Jeralt was away with the Knights on a mission, he would pen a letter to her—many he'd never actually send, only sending a few by raven and tucking the rest into one of his journals. And each time he would return to the monastery, she was the first person he'd greet.

Byleth wishes she could find and read those letters stuffed in one of her father's journals. The notebook he had left for her in her previous life was only a record, of sorts. A simple rehashing of the day's events—no flourishes or prose.

She knows her father is more than a mercenary or parent. He was once a husband who loved his wife—her mother. He was once a captain of the most prestigious group of Knights in Fódlan... but left under the guise of a fire without a trace, Byleth in tow. He was a miracle worker for small villages across Fódlan with his strength and skill.

_I know there's more to you, father. I wish to get to know you in this life, so I can keep you safe as you have done for me all these years. Please let me in this time… before it's too late._

"What d'ya need?" he asks, pulling Byleth out of her thoughts.

"I was just hoping we could talk."

"Well, I suppose I have a few moments to catch up with my kid before I have to pack for our next mission... Tell me, how are the brats? Sick of 'em yet?"

"Oh..." Byleth murmurs. "Oh—no! No, I'm not sick of them," she laughs thinly. _I missed them. I missed when they were innocent like this, before they started killing each other and dying at merciless hands in a brutal and bloody war._

"Dad, why are they always sending you on missions? I never see you," Byleth questions, changing the topic. Even now, her father is readying to leave again for a spell.

"They put me right back to work, Byleth. I don't know what else to say," he sighs, putting his pen and inkwell away in his desk drawer. "There's a lot going on that the Church is investigating—"

"Are they even bothering to look into the Flame Emperor?" she cuts her father off, waving her hands exasperatedly in the air.

"Yes... but keep it down, kiddo," Jeralt says in a low voice, frowning at his daughter. "I'm not supposed to talk to anyone about our missions. Even you."

Her temper is already short, but irritation bristles inside Byleth. She pushes back. " _So what_ if they hear us? I was the one who told Rhea about the Flame Emperor!"

"You're right, but I'm not about to go shaking the boat around here."

"So you'll let them walk all over you?" Byleth's voice cracks, strained as it steadily increases in volume; she runs a hand through her hair. "What you said before... that you can't refuse the archbishop... Why, dad? What does she have over you?"

Jeralt stands up straighter, thumping a hand down on his desk to interrupt her. "What has gotten into you, Byleth?" he demands, raising his voice to match hers. She shrinks away, folding her arms over her chest—it's been a while since her father has been upset with her.

"Close the door," he orders her. She does what she's told without protest, then walks back to stand before his desk. Byleth clenches her jaw and crosses her arms again. "I have never seen you this angry, kid. What is going on?"

She hesitates before speaking, mulling over her words before uttering them. _What's going on?_ "I don't know anything about you, father. And I don't know anything about mother. Is it because of you or her that I can wield this sword?"

Jeralt stands motionless before her, his eyes widening at the mention of Byleth's mother. He doesn't respond to his daughter's question after a beat, so she continues.

"I had this crest my entire life," Byleth murmurs, eyes squinting shut, "and you never once told me. You never told me about this place, about the Church, about _any_ of it... Alois told me you were happy here at the monastery... if you were happy, father, then why did you leave?"

"Because your mother," his voice becomes strangled in this throat. Jeralt rests a hand on his desk and leans into it, hanging his head. After a beat of silence, he takes a deep breath and continues. "Because I lost your mother. We... lost your mother. I wasn't able to protect her, but I was able to protect you."

"Protect me from what? From Rhea?"

"Byleth, I… I can't discuss this today," he pleads. Usually Byleth is the stoic one—in Jeralt's journal, he noted that she never did cry growing up. But Jeralt always keeps his emotions in check, too, seldom crying in front of her.

While Byleth had learned to weep between this life and her last... she did not expect to see her father to do the same before her as he does now.

Jeralt's eyes look damp as he shakes his head. He shoves a few of the remaining papers on his desk into his canvas bag and slings it over his shoulder. "I have to go now. I promise we can talk about things later."

Byleth stands defeated in the middle of her father's office as he grabs his sword that was leaning against the wall, buckling the sword belt around his waist. He walks to the door, stopping to give her a pat on the shoulder. His hand lingers there a moment, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but Byleth doesn't react. Doesn't even look at him.

_You always promise me that, father. What happens when there is no longer a later or a next time?_

He sighs and walks out of his office, the sound of his boots echoing down the corridor.

  
  
  


* * *

To make up for the other day during her swordsmanship class, Dimitri insists on buying them both lunch from the market down in the village—his treat, he tells her.

At first, she is reluctant to agree. She has reports to complete, books to finish reading to return to Seteth, assignments to grade, and lectures that she's far behind on preparing for.

"You're working yourself too hard, Byleth," the goddess scolds her. "Honestly, you can't tell me that you don't want to spend time with your sweet prince?" The look Sothis gives her is equally accusatory and teasing.

 _It's not that I don't_ want _to, Sothis... it's whether or not I should._

Sothis grumbles in response. She knows Byleth's inner feelings about her relationship with Dimitri—afterall, there is no hiding her sentiments and thoughts from the goddess. Anxiety and fear has plagued Byleth since her dream of Dimitri that evening in her previous life. And heartbreak has been her companion much longer than that—having believed the prince was lost from the moment she awoke from her long sleep.

Those feelings are still confusing to her, despite being ever-present in her mind. The dissonance between wanting the same of Dimitri in this life... and hesitating about getting close to him again in fear of losing him... in fear of feeling that anguishing, raw pain a second time.

But when Dimitri looks at her, earnest as ever with his brilliant blue eyes and shy smile... it becomes easier to push aside her anxiety, for the time being. She agrees to lunch, to which Sothis makes an exasperated sigh of relief at her side.

They enjoy each other's conversation and company as they descend the stairs of the entrance hall.

"Dimitri, how wonderful to see you here as well," a voice greets the prince. They slow their step, turning to face the man approaching them.

"Oh! It is a surprise to see you, too!" Dimitri says, his surprise obvious in his tone. "Are you here to visit Edelgard?"

Byleth studies Dimitri's visitor. His piercing violet eyes definitely bear resemblance to Edelgard's. He's dressed in regal crimson vestments, and folds one arm behind his back as he bows to greet the prince.

"Yes, in fact, that is what brings me back here to the monastery. It has been many years... and funny enough, everything remains the same," he chuckles, motioning to the exansive hall around them. "It's nice to stay in touch with my dear niece every now and then. Of course, I'm also delighted that I was able to speak with my nephew, as well. Whether through blood or marriage, family is family, after all. Yes?"

Dimitri nods his head quickly. "Of course! The feeling is mutual."

"And who might this be? How rude of me to butt into your conversation. I am Lord Arundel, Regent for the Empire," the man says, this time facing Byleth. She feels the weight of his evaluating gaze.

"Byleth Eisner," she replies, extending her hand to shake his. She suppresses a shiver at how cold his palm is, even through the leather of his gloves. "I'm one of the professors here at the Officers Academy."

Lord Arundel's eyes light up. "Ah, so it is! You must be the head of the Black Eagle house—Edelgard has told me much about you," he explains.

Byleth freezes at the implications, her jaw clenching. She realizes her reaction isn't particularly well-hidden when he responds immediately.

"No need to make that face, Professor Eisner. My niece has nothing but spectacular things to say about your strength and aptitude in battle," he assures her with a chuckle. "Not to mention your skill with that fabled Relic!"

He gestures to the Sword of the Creator on her hip.

"Oh... yes."

Arundel steps back and clasps his hands before him. "Well, I should be on my way. It was good to see you, Dimitri. And lovely to finally meet you, Professor," he nods at both of them as he bids them farewell.

The pair continue on their way, but that did not stop Byleth from ruminating on Lord Arundel and the conversation they all just shared. Nor did it prevent the unease from bubbling inside her about the fact that her student—the Flame Emperor—was writing to powers in the Empire about her.

"And that Sword of yours," Sothis adds.

Byleth nods. The importance of the Relic on her belt isn't lost on her.

"He called you nephew..." she trails off, glancing over at Dimitri.

He grimaces. "My stepmother was his younger sister. We're not related by blood, but he is technically my uncle."

Byleth's mind reels. "So," she swallows, trying to maintain a neutral expression and tone. "You and Edelgard..."

"Yes, he is an uncle to us both," he nods affirmatively. "My stepmother was Edelgard's birth mother, which makes us siblings by marriage. But we can delve into that topic another time. So, Professor, shouldn't be on our way to the village?"

His smile is a little crooked, and it doesn't reach his eyes. She agrees and drops the subject, hoping she can put the startling revelation out of her mind enough to try and enjoy an afternoon lunch with the prince.

The green-haired goddess trailing behind her doesn't help much.

"Oh dear... the princess of the Empire and the Kingdom's prince are kin! How very... odd," Sothis muses.

 _I find it odd as well,_ Byleth thinks back. _And we never learned of this the last time. Dimitri... he never spoke of it to me before... But it makes sense why he was so..._ upset _back then._

"After the Flame Emperor was revealed to be Edelgard? You're right..." Sothis hums. Byleth looks over at him again, studying the softness of his brow and the rosiness of his cheeks.

  
  


_He looks at her as they lay together, but his eyes are distant, frigid. He talks, but it's always about_ her. _They train, but he strikes Byleth's training sword so hard each time that splinters dig into the pads of her fingers. She eventually stops sparring with him altogether, as his restraint and concern for her safety is notably absent._

_There's a vengeance that weighs heavily on him. He doesn't even come to bed anymore. She often finds him wandering the monastery like a ghost... the compassionate, ardent Dimitri she knew had transfigured into a hollow shell of himself._

_Each time she reaches out, his shell only seems to crack and splinter further._

  
  


"He likely did not wish to share the knowledge he harbors back then. And now, too, so it seems," Sothis continues. "In any case, it's yet another mystery for you to solve."

Byleth lets out a measured breath.

"Perhaps you can _charm_ the information out of the young prince?" the goddess suggests with a giggle, tugging on the sleeve of her cloak.

_I will not use him in that way, Sothis._

She thinks back to her previous life and how Edelgard's treachery poisoned Dimitri and stole the relationship Byleth had with him away. How it plunged all of Fódlan into chaos, ultimately costing the prince his life in a war of her design.

The fear begins to creep back inside of her, anxiety prickling at every cell in her body. She starts to doubt agreeing to lunch with him.

  
  


* * *

The inky night sky is full of stars, and Edelgard should be asleep before tomorrow's certification exams, but meeting with her uncle earlier that afternoon was... _unexpected,_ to say the least. It left her with a great deal to mull over, as their correspondence often does. She loathes his visits, but understands the social necessity of being agreeable. _The noble etiquette._

She pulls a coat over her night dress and pads down the hallway quietly as not to alert Hubert or any other students. Normally, she would go on a walk around the monastery to the cathedral when she feels restless or unsettled. Edelgard isn't one for praying anymore, but she finds solace just sitting in one of the pews to think.

When she walks through the dormitory courtyard toward the cathedral bridge, she feels compelled to do something completely different. It could very well be that it was her subconscious intention the entire time, but nonetheless, she finds herself knocking on her professor's door instead.

Much to Edelgard's surprise, her professor opens the door. 

"Oh! Professor! I didn't think you'd be up this late." Byleth looks exhausted, her hair uncharacteristically mussed. _Perhaps I woke her,_ Edelgard frets.

"It is quite late, I was about to head to bed," she states dryly. "But you knocked on my door, so you must have come here for something. What is the matter?"

"I see..." Edelgard tugs her coat tighter around her, turning to leave. _Of course. Best not to trouble her._ "Well, don't let me keep you, my teacher. My apologies."

"Hey, wait—you didn't answer my question. Are you... alright?"

She stops and languidly turns back to face her professor. "I just— I couldn't sleep. And I despise being cooped up when sleep evades me," Edelgard laughs. Her hands curl so tightly into the fabric of her coat that she can feel her pulse in her fingertips. "And..."

Silence.

_And everything is too much and not enough at the same time, Professor. I’ve walked this path through my life alone for so long, now. The journey ahead of me is daunting, and I don’t know if I can continue alone. Will it ever be safe to trust again? Can I truly reach out for help?_

"And?" Byleth questions.

"And... a lot has been weighing heavily on my mind, Professor. Do you remember what I told you the other night? About my past?" she whispers the last part.

Edelgard looks expectantly at her professor. She watches as Byleth swings open the door, waving her into her room. Edelgard bows her head slightly, and wordlessly quickly steps inside.

They stand in the middle of her room, Edelgard still clutching her coat. Her heart is racing. She spins to face the other woman. She takes a deep breath. If the goddess can't listen to her pleas, then maybe... just maybe she can. _Something about you, my teacher… gives me hope that I don’t have to walk this path alone._

"My siblings and I were... imprisoned underground. Beneath the Empire palace. They did foul experiments on us to endow our bodies with the power of a Major Crest. As I've told you, I was born with the Crest of Seiros, inherited through the Hresvelg bloodline. But it was only a _Minor_ Crest..."

"Your siblings didn't have a crest?" Byleth asks.

Edelgard shakes her head. "Some of them shared my Minor Crest... but most of them bore no Crest at all," she explains. She looks at her Professor for a moment—she looks... distant. Bored, even. Doubt floods her veins. _My teacher... if I reach out to you now, will you turn me away?_

"But what they really wanted was to create a peerless emperor to rule Fódlan. A Major Crest... or, better yet, two crests. Such a thing is unnatural. They gave us tinctures and medicines that made us sick and weak, cursed us with their dark magic, violated our bodies by cutting open our flesh..." 

She winces at the memory of knives slicing open her skin and pulling it back. Of black masked men and women searing her flesh with the darkest of magic. Of biting down on her tongue enough to fill her mouth with blood as she squirms away from the foul potions they force her to swallow.

"Yet, you survived," Byleth tells her, snapping her out of the downward spiral of her memories.

She nods affirmatively. "So I did."

Edelgard extends a hand before her and magically projects her biggest secret in the air before them—her second crest.

"I would never lie to you, my teacher," she swears. "I have the same crest as yours—the Crest of Flames. Such power dwells within me, yet it came at too high a price. My siblings... and others, too... were sacrificed by that terrible process. By those _wicked_ people, by their _horrific_ experiments," she seethes. Tears of anger and rage burn hot at the corners of her eyes.

Her professor looks alarmed and steps forward, reaching to gently touch her arm. Edelgard flinches back.

"What people? Who did this to you?" Byleth asks, her eyes serious.

"They're a group who remain in the shadows plotting other wicked deeds, welcomed into the Empire by the prime minister and his gaggle of nobles. They had the Empire under their thumbs... my father was powerless against them and the villains who did this to me, my siblings, and the countless other innocent lives."

"I'm sor—"

"Please, my teacher," she pleads, cutting her off. "Promise me that you will help me."

_Hear me now, my teacher. Can I trust you to take my hand?_

"We can never allow such atrocities to happen again. And I fear that they are still working in the shadows, committing the same horrors to other children."

Byleth opens her mouth to say something, but pauses, looking alarmed. _What say you, my teacher? Do you feel what I have felt for so long, but have been unable to show?_ "What makes you say that?" she murmurs, her eyes wide as the candlelight flickers across her face.

"We live in dark times, Professor. What people wouldn't do for the power of a crest..." Edelgard sighs, frowning. "I would _never_ wish this curse of mine onto anyone else."

  
  


* * *

Like a shadow, she follows him.

Byleth doesn't do it to be threatening—in fact, she's quite certain there's no way he could possibly feel threatened by her. She tracks his whereabouts to learn his routine, in turn, to better detect when he will act out of character. It quickly becomes evident to her that Professor Jertiza is composed of more than one character.

She knows from her past life that Jertiza was allegedly the Death Knight. It was never confirmed then, but with the underground tunnel in his personal chambers, his mask found with an unconscious Manuela, and his unexplained disappearance after the Black Eagles had rescued Flayn... it was safe enough to assume.

Byleth can't tell if it's her reading too much into things, but she thinks she sees the Death Knight persona flicker across Jeritza’s face. It's not often, but it's enough for her to take notice of the pointed shifts in his demeanor. His mask obscures most of his expression, but his eyes harden and seem to turn a darker, stormier shade of blue; the corners of his mouth twitch to keep from flashing his teeth and looking like he's bearing them like an angry hound.

What she notices most is his hands—how the joints of his fingers stiffen and the tendons tighten when the darkness takes hold. But she also sees how he resists against the clenching of his hands, how they tremble in the struggle to maintain composure. It's like he battles against the Death Knight persona to keep him tucked away behind the mask.

She also learns about Jeritza von Hrym, the _man._

Byleth learns Jeritza is rather handy, fixing his student's broken weapons and armor here and there. He sometimes indulges in chess matches against the other faculty, and always wins. After a week of mealtimes and lingering a few people behind him in line at the dining hall, she discovers he's quite fond of sweets. He unfailingly asks for a helping of saghert at each meal—always pausing to give a deliberate thanks to the kitchen staff. And sometimes he enjoys a small dish of peach sorbet in the afternoons after his combat lecture. Other times she'll catch him taking bits of his grilled meat or fish and feeding them to the stray cats down by the pond.

The strays are the most company Byleth sees him keep; she considers a few times to join him as he tucks into his meal alone at a table-end furthest to the back of the dining hall. Ultimately, she decides against it to not raise undue suspicion. Besides, one day she watched as Mercedes asked if she could dine with him and the man turned her away. If Jeritza rejected the most pure-hearted, well-intentioned soul in all of Garreg Mach, certainly there was no hope of them sharing a meal and conversation.

 _We could share a sparring match,_ Byleth thinks one afternoon. She pushes open the doors of the training grounds just as his lecture adjourns. The students greet her as they gather their items and make their exit, leaving only her and Jeritza behind.

“Do you have business here?” he asks her, his voice flat. He picks up a training lance from the ground and dusts it off.

Byelth approaches and motions toward the weapons rack. “I was hoping to spar with you.”

Jeritza doesn’t respond at first; he paces over to the rack and slides in the wooden lance next to the others. Tilting back his head, he faces the midday sun, pieces of his ashen blond hair falling back from his face. His eyes are shut as he basks in the warmth, his face a portrait of stillness.

“I would enjoy that…” Jeritza trails off, opening his eyes and squinting against the sun. He lowers his head, that certain darkness befalling him. A grimace, the light extinguished from his eyes… a crease of tension on his brow. The quirk of his hands as Jeritza von Hrym slips into the background.

“But not today, Professor.”

  
  


* * *

When Flayn goes missing, Byleth is summoned from one of her tactics seminars. Cyril pokes his head in the classroom door, the look on his face grim. He tells her Lady Rhea requires her presence immediately, and that it's urgent.

Byleth's eyes flick over to meet Felix's. He gives her the tiniest nod as if to say, _'I'm ready, let's go.'_ He's already putting his books away into his bag as she instructs the class to continue reading until she returns. The swordsman's good arm shoots up as she begins to walk to the back of the classroom.

"Professor, will you excuse me so I can go to the infirmary? My arm is bothering me," he asks, fake wincing. She knows that he has tea to help manage the pain, and that he actually has been abstaining from training to avoid strain on his healing arm. But she plays along as part of their plan.

"Of course," she says as cool as possible. "If you don't make it back before class is over, make sure you complete the assigned reading."

He nods again, collecting his things. Byleth surveys the classroom before leaving and catches the piercing gaze of Hubert. _Does he... know of the kidnapping? Is that why he's looking at me?_ she thinks fleetingly. Looking closer at him, she sees the smirk on his face and the curious glint in his eyes. Sothis sees it, too.

"I think he's just trying to unravel your secrets," the goddess chides. "That you make _far_ too obvious sometimes, Byleth. I mean _honestly_ . You and Felix leaving at the same time? He probably _does_ know about Flayn, and now you give him this to speculate about?"

_Whether he knows or not, we need to get to Flayn right away. His suspicion isn't going to stop me._

"Ah, suit yourself," Sothis sighs, folding her arms.

Byleth exits the classroom and catches up with Felix. Their plan is relatively simple: she would learn of Flayn's kidnapping from Rhea and Felix would head to Jeritza's quarters to find the passage underground before Manuela or anyone else does. Afterwards, she'd rally her students and they'd head down the passage that Felix conveniently "found" and rescue Flayn.

As their paths part and the swordsman heads off to the faculty quarters, she fleetingly hopes that his magic has improved enough to keep him safe should Jeritza or any of the dark mages show up.

She stands before Rhea, and Seteth is clearly on edge. Professor Hanneman is also there to receive the news and emergency mission, but the third house advisor is absent—Manuela. _Dammit, has she gotten caught up in this already? Flayn_ just _went missing... weeks of searching went by the last time._

"Such is the flow of time," Sothis interjects. "Even the tiniest action can alter the chain of events. Didn't Felix tell you as much before? Hm, I sure hope he's alright."

* * *

The door to Jeritza's room is wedged shut, so Felix has to lean into the heavy wooden door to try to get it to open. After struggling for an embarrassingly long moment, he slams his body weight into the door to try to force it to budge. But it doesn't. _Of course it doesn't._

 _Maybe the damn thing's locked_ , he thinks to himself, jostling the handle again. He holds out his hands over the handle and tries to unlock it with some magic. _Tries_ being the operative word. He furrows his brow and tries to focus and conjure a blast of magic like Lysithea has shown him time and time again, but it only fizzles out like a puff of smoke.

"Fucking hell," he mutters. Felix tries to cast the spell again, but it withers away once more. He slams his fist against the door out of frustration, cursing the door, cursing the Death Knight, cursing himself for being so _stupid_ to be mangled by a beast so that he'd let some girl teach try to teach him magic, of _all_ things...

But his fist is what opens the door, oddly enough. Felix practically tumbles forward into the room as the door swings open. He manages to catch himself on his hands, but realizes that it was a terrible, absolutely awful way for him to break his fall. A cry escapes his lips as he drops to the floor on his good shoulder, the pain from his not quite healed enough arm shooting like lightning strikes and burning like hellfire.

He grimaces as he slowly pushes himself upright. A quick survey of the room reveals the tunnel, bits and pieces of broken stone strewn about the cabinets that are pushed away from the wall. _Huh, just as Byleth said_ , he marvels. Not that he _didn't_ believe her—it’s just that it all seems like a dream each time things happen exactly as she had revealed to him. But unfortunately, his professor wasn't quick enough to prevent Manuela's involvement. She lay unconscious on the ground, a wicked bruise forming on her jaw and neck.

Felix scrambles over to her and checks for a pulse. He tries to shake her to consciousness gently, but that proves difficult with his trembling hands from the adrenaline rushing through him... and the anger. The anger at the Death Knight and at the Flame Emperor—no, _Edelgard_ —for permitting this to happen as he plays professor and she plays good student.

His hands still when he sees the blood on Manuela's front.

 _Shit, shit, shit._ Again, he flexes his fingers over the bleeding wound, magic sparking at the tips in intermittent flashes of white light. He desperately tries to cast a Heal spell, but the more he tries to cast it, the more brief the glow of light before it fizzles out.

"Felix? Is that you?" a soft voice fills the silence. "Is everything alright?"

He turns sharply to look at the figure standing in the door. _Mercedes_.

"What are you doing just standing there? Can't you see that it's not alright? Manuela's hurt," he snaps at her. He watches as a range of emotions flicker across her face. Perhaps that came off a little harsh, even for him. _It's not like it was her fault all this happened_.

Felix sighs exasperatedly. "Can you heal her? I've been trying, and I haven't been able to," he asks, his tone softer this time.

Mercedes is quick to nod and kneel down beside him, the look of hurt and confusion leaving her expression completely like he _wasn't_ just a complete ass to her. And, like the goddess damn _angel_ she is, she effortlessly heals Manuela's wound with a powerful glow of white healing magic. Felix then stands and paces over to the tunnel in the wall; he peers into it, bracing himself for some stupid mage to pop up out of there.

"Do you know what happened?" Mercedes asks, looking up at him, her eyes wide with concern.

He shakes his head. "I don't,” he says quickly. _I do—the fucking Death Knight kidnapped Flayn for goddess-knows-what and he's been teaching at the monastery the entire time._ "I just... heard some, uh," he coughs, albeit unconvincingly, "commotion from in here. When I came to check, this is what I saw."

She purses her lips and lowers her head slightly, some of the blonde pieces of her hair escaping the ribbon and falling in front of her face.

"Oh," Mercedes murmurs, so softly that he could barely hear. "Have you seen my brother?"

"Your... brother?"

* * *

Before heading back to her classroom, Byleth practically chases after the distraught green-haired advisor. 

"Seteth, please," she begs him.

He keeps walking, turning the corner into his office. He weakly pushes the door shut, but Byleth catches it before it closes all the way. She understands how distraught he is; in the previous time, she had gotten quite close to him and Flayn after her long sleep. It was Seteth who found her after she was pulled from the river, after her encounter with Edelgard. It was Seteth who took her in and gave her a place to sleep, food to eat, a place and a purpose in the middle of a devastating war.

With how he cared for Byleth like a daughter, it came as no surprise to her when Seteth revealed that he was Flayn’s father, not brother. And though he did not speak of it to her before, Byleth has a hunch that Flayn’s kidnapping was not the only time she had been put in grave danger… based on the panicked urgency in which he dispatched every available Knight and student. She hopes he will reveal more of his secrets to her in this life.

And she hopes that bringing Seteth along with her to face the Death Knight and Flame Emperor and their wicked schemes will do just that. And at the very least, it will bolster him as her ally against a common enemy—sooner rather than later.

"I think I know where Flayn is. I will find her, I swear it,” Byleth says, following behind him as he paces his office. Her promise piques his interest out of despair, for the moment.

"You… know where she is? Impossible," he whispers, his voice cracking.

"I have a suspicion. Call it a hunch,” she tells him. Then she looks at him seriously for a long moment. “Do you still not trust me?"

"I never said—"

"Please, trust me, Seteth. For today, at least?"

He sighs. "I will trust you. For Flayn and her safety, I trust you."

She gives him a measured nod. Byleth marches over to the small weapons rack in the corner of his office behind his desk. “Good. Now take this and come with me." She plucks a silver lance from his collection and tosses it to him.

"What?" Seteth looks at her incredulously.

"If I'm right, I need you to see this."

* * *

When Byleth and the Black Eagles show up at Jertiza’s quarters, Felix is relieved. Though he quickly notices the worried look etched into Byleth’s face as she surveys Manuela laying bloodied on the ground and Mercedes kneeling beside her. He quickly explains to her that Mercedes had happened across the scene and healed the fallen professor.

“I would’ve helped Mercedes carry her to the infirmary…” he finishes his sentence by looking down at his arm. His stupid, worthless arm.

“What happened here?” Seteth questions, pushing his way to the front of the group of students. _Weird, why is he here?_ Felix wonders, quirking an eyebrow at Byleth who grimaces back at him. _Thought he’d be curled up in a ball crying in his office. Hmph._

“Someone clearly attacked her,” Edelgard remarks. Her face is uncharacteristically upset, her brow furrowed and fists clenched, hidden away behind the red of her cape. _How dare you look angry at this_ , Felix thinks. _Of course someone attacked her… it was of your doing, wasn’t it?_

“And look, there’s an opening behind that cabinet! Is that a passageway?” Caspar exclaims loudly.

“Someone, please help Mercedes bring Professor Manuela to the infirmary,” Seteth calls out.

It’s Edelgard that steps forward and volunteers. Just as Byleth had said. “I’ll assist. I’ll support her head, Mercedes,” she says, kneeling down to help scoop up the professor in her arms. Then she looks back, right at Byleth. “Professor, I’ll be back shortly. Please, be careful.”

_A warning? The nerve of that girl._

“Does this mean Professor Jertiza did it? Could he have kidnapped Flayn?!” Caspar blurts again, never knowing when to keep his volume down. Seteth pales at the implications. Felix notices Mercedes flinch at Caspars words as she and Edelgard carry Manuela out of the room. _Was she serious that Jertiza was her brother? Wasn’t her brother Emile?_

“Let’s investigate this passageway, Professor,” Felix says. He motions to the crumbling dark tunnel downward. His eyes darken as Hubert openly laughs at him before she can respond.

“The culprit could be hiding inside, and without your precious sword to protect you… what will you do?” the tall, gangly mage sneers.

“Fuck off, Hubert,” Felix growls, moving in front of his stupid, evil face—

Byleth steps between them, pressing a hand square in each of their chests to keep them apart from one another. “Enough. Both of you,” she says, giving both him and Hubert a stern look. Felix huffs and backs away, folding his arms gingerly.

“Shall we, Professor?” Hubert asks, staring down at him even still. _I can’t wait until I can actually do magic and melt that smug look off your face, asshole._

“Yes, let’s investigate. Lead the way, von Vestra,” Byleth says with a wave of her hand. Caspar is close behind the stupid mage, practically jumping out of his skin as he follows him down the passage— _he’s dumb_ , Felix thinks, _but he knows and loves a good fight when he sees one coming_.

He’s about to duck in the tunnel next when Byleth’s arm sticks out before him.

“Felix, with your arm…” she trails off. She can’t even bring herself to say it, just like he can’t. “You can’t… no, _I_ can’t let you get injured again. Please, go and grab some healers from the infirmary and bring them down after us. I have a feeling we might need them.”

Byleth speaks to him with her professor voice, and gives him her professor look. He’s upset, sure. He wants more than anything to swing his blade at the Death Knight or Jertiza or whoever the hell he is. But he honors her orders with a nod.

“Felix! I shall accompany you!”

Both his and Byleth’s heads turn to the owner of the proud voice and its declaration. Felix must have grumbled aloud as the voice rings out again.

“It is no trouble at all,” Ferdinand assures him, clapping the back of Felix’s good shoulder. “And do not worry, Professor. We shall return with healers.”

Felix rolls his eyes and obliges. He hears the tiniest laugh from Byleth as they exit Jertiza’s quarters, and he can’t help but sigh in resignation. _Of course she’d think it’s funny… me stuck with Ferdinand von Noblest of the Nobles. Ugh._

As they walk to the infirmary, Ferdinand tries to make small talk. About horses and tea and other things Felix couldn’t care less about. He seemed to pick up on his disinterest quickly, though, as he changes the topic.

“I… apologize for what Hubert said to you back there,” Ferdinand says, frowning. “It was ill-considered for him to say that to you, given your injuries.”

“Stop. You shouldn’t have to apologize for him.”

“You will not get an apology from him,” Ferdinand asserts. “You could also just have said ‘thanks.’”

Felix nods. “Well then… thanks,” he mumbles. “Say, is Hubert always such an insufferable asshole?”

The golden-haired von Aegir heir laughs, much to Felix’s surprise. “While I personally would not use those words… yes, he is. Toward me, at least. And you, so it seems.”

 _Hmph._ Felix never thought he’d live to see a day where him and _Ferdinand von Stick Up His Ass_ had anything in common. But then again, stranger things have happened since Byleth came to the monastery, to put it mildly.

He hears footsteps and voices behind the shrubbery by the courtyard—though the voices are whispers, he recognizes a familiar voice. Ferdinand does, too, as his face lights up; he’s about to open his big mouth again, but Felix quickly pulls him down and behind one the hedges. He presses a finger to his lips, gesturing to Ferdinand to stay quiet as they eavesdrop.

Peeking between the branches and leaves of the hedge, Felix’s suspicions are confirmed. It’s Edelgard and…

“Her uncle?” Ferdinand whispers as he squints through the foliage at the scene before him. Felix nudges him to be quiet, and they both listen in.

Edelgard’s face holds the same anger it did back in Jeritza’s room as she argues with the man Ferdinand recognizes as her uncle. Come to think of it, Felix had seen the man around the monastery recently. _Wasn’t the boar talking to him? Huh._

“Best that you head down there and help your Knight, my niece,” the man tells her. He hands her a folded stack of clothing with a foreign-looking metal helmet atop it, which she accepts begrudgingly from him before walking away.

“What _is_ that? What Knight?” Ferdinand gawks. “Something does not seem right about this… should we follow her?”

 _Shit… shit! Did he see too much? He definitely knows something’s up._ He’s suddenly nervous, his palms sweating and indecision churning in his stomach. And as much as Felix wants to follow her, to catch her before she dresses in her Flame Emperor disguise, he shakes his head at the Black Eagle.

“No. Let’s get the healers. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” he tells Ferdinand, the last part a lie. _There’s a lot to worry about._ “We’ll meet her down with the others.”

That much is true, at least.

* * *

Underground, Byleth pushes ahead of the group, Seteth along with her. No sign of Flayn, or the Death Knight… or anyone, for that matter. Winding through corridors and pushing through iron gates, they catch sight of the warm glow of a chamber illuminated ahead and the shuffle of footsteps, the metallic clink of goddess knows what.

Or rather, Caspar catches sight of the chamber ahead and points it out to everyone rather loudly, his voice reverberating around the stone walls.

Dorothea groans and Seteth huffs as the men keeping guard outside the room come barreling down the corridor toward them… but Byleth doesn’t even blink. And neither does Hubert, it seems. The two of them lead the counter-assault on the soldiers, working in tandem to fell each one. The Sword of the Creator glows hot in her hand, and magic singes the leather of his gloves.

Usually there is a mirth in Hubert’s eyes when he fights. It had always been that way, as far as Byleth can remember, in this life and the last. It's as if the mage is laughing at every drop of blood spilt onto the earth... and the more that is spilled at his hand, the more pleased he becomes. Like death is but a joke and he is the punchline.

But as reinforcements pour out of the chamber before them, archers with poison arrows and dark mages hurling sulfuric spells… Byleth catches his eye. There’s no merriment in his gaze today. No.

His eyes hold only bitterness and bile.

They’re close to the chamber, now, but there’s commotion from inside it. Unmasked mages bustle about inside, shuffling people about in the chaos. Purple smoke casts everything in a haze, but through it she sees a flash of green hair and a flash of… orange? _Flayn and… Annette?!_ The Sword pulses in her hand as she moves to the chamber entrance, uncertainty brewing in the pit of her stomach.

Horse hooves echo around her; Byleth hears them, but pays them no mind. She can make out Flayn and Annette’s limp bodies in the room just footsteps before her. She must protect them, must ensure no harm befalls them. She must learn what it is these dastards want with Flayn… and now with Annette. Nothing else matters. The Sword glows through the purple stink of dark magic swirling about like a beacon. _I need to know…_

“Professor!”

A body crashes into her and they both fall to the ground, the Sword of the Creator clattering out of her grip and onto the stone floor. Byleth pushes herself up and sees it was Seteth who had been knocked into her. By the Death Knight, she presumes, as she looks up at the masked rider on a midnight steed.

“I have no need of you,” he rumbles through his skull mask.

Byleth tugs the green-haired advisor up off the ground along with herself, but not before the Death Knight rears his horse and moves toward them. Seteth stands firm and parries the swing of his scythe with his own lance, though he only manages to hold his position for a moment. The Death Knight’s scythe slices into his bicep before he can move away. Grimacing, Seteth touches the now wet tear in the fabric of his tunic, his fingertips pulling away bloodied.

“My apologies for this, Seteth,” Hubert says as he steps into the fray and casts a powerful spell at the Death Knight, indigo and black smoke pillowing in the air. The Death Knight’s horse whinnies, and it buys enough time for Seteth to retreat enough to gain a better position. “You should withdraw from here,” the mage warns their foe.

“I don’t take orders from you.”

Hubert readies another dark spell in his hands, but the Death Knight swings his scythe down at him before he can cast it. In fact, the forbidden magic smoldering in his hold is the only thing that saves him from the Death Knight—he holds onto the spell long enough for it to act as a shield, the blade striking the concentration of energy instead of Hubert himself. While unscathed from the scythe, the strength of the blow throws him back several yards, his body a tangle of limbs that tumbles across the stone.

“Now,” the Death Knight declares, narrowing his sights on Byleth, “you will die together… How joyous.” He swings his scythe to its apex again.

Byleth breathes in deeply and opens her right hand by her side—the Sword of the Creator scrapes against the floor as it flies into her outstretched hand. It glows hot in her palm as she brings her hands together on the grip. Their weapons meet in the air between them, blades interlocking at the guards of Byleth’s Sword.

“That blade…” the Death Knight rumbles.

She pushes off and pivots away from him. With a snap of her wrist, she extends the Sword of the Creator toward her enemy. The fragments of the Sword wrap around the chine of his scythe. Her strength pales in comparison to his, especially with the leverage he has sitting atop his steed. The Death Knight pulls on his weapon with the Sword of the Creator still wrapped around it, dragging Byleth toward him.

Face to face with his horse, she manages a tug on her weapon, pulling him down toward her to get his attention.

“What are you doing in there?” Byleth demands through gritted teeth. She nods back to the chamber behind them. “Why did you kidnap them?”

Seteth had mentioned in her previous life that Flayn was abducted for her blood, for her crest. And now, Byleth believes Annette is also in that chamber, being subjected to whatever cruel deeds and plots these dark mages are up to. _She also has a crest,_ Byleth remembers. _I need to know…_

“Why?”

The Sword retracts. Byleth and the Death Knight part only to clash weapons again. Her foe is silent to her pleas and questions.

“Do you work for the Flame Emperor?” she asks, though already knowing the answer. “What does he have to gain from kidnapping children?”

“I don’t answer to you,” he booms, circling Byleth on his horse.

The Death Knight activates his crest as he raises his scythe once more. An intricately woven diamond shape glows in the air before him as his steed gallops toward her. Seteth, who has been covering Byleth by holding off any approaching mages and soldiers, looks up at the illuminated crest. Crimson stains his sleeve and he nearly drops his lance, faltering at the sight of the familiar emblem. “It can’t be…” he mutters.

“These are _children_ that you are experimenting on!” Byleth seethes. “Children you have _ripped_ away from their friends and family… all because you want their blood? Their _crests_?”

The Death Knight swings his scythe down at Byleth, but misses, much to her surprise. She locks the Sword of the Creator around the heel of his blade again.

“Their… crests…”

* * *

It’s like his fingers won’t wrap around the grip of his sword just right. The nerves running down his arm stutter with uncertainty, likely still trying to heal after his injury. Felix feels a burning frustration as he fumbles with his blade as he and Ferdinand jog down the tunnel to meet up with the others.

Marianne and Mercedes are not far behind them. They were the only two available healers; he monk assisting in the infirmary elected to stay behind to tend to Manuela, sending along the two girls. As they approach the conflict, Marianne coughs at the cloud of sulfuric stink in the air, but gets right to work at healing some magical burns on Petra’s arm.

Felix notices Mercedes glance ahead at the Dark Knight and his crest glowing in the air as he swings his scythe down at their professor. He’s seen that crest before, he’s _sure of it_. He looks down at Mercedes’ hands who have healed him time after time, sewed holes in his clothes, poured him tea despite never being asked to do so.

Her hands tremble, but she shuffles away before he can ask or say anything. _That’s where I’ve seen it_ , he thinks as he watches her help Linhardt tend to an unconscious and badly bruised Hubert. _He really is her brother, huh?_

Felix looks away as they begin setting the stupid mage’s broken and mangled limbs. He overhears the Black Eagle mage recount how the Death Knight broke every bone in Hubert’s body, and he briefly wonders how in Fódlan he managed to get busted up so badly by his own ally. _Well, not_ every _bone in his body,_ he thinks darkly. _I can wish, though._

He and Ferdinand push ahead to join Byleth and Seteth. Felix can barely lift the sword in his hands, but he clings to it to feel useful—despite his better judgement and mister _von Noble’s_ persistent protests. _Annoying._

Seteth tries to hold off soldiers and mages as reinforcements continue to trickle in and guard the entrance to the chamber at the end of the corridor. The putrid stench coming from that room is enough to make Felix wretch… like burning hair or a deer carcass left out in the summer sun for a few days. Byleth crosses blades with the Death Knight, and something she says causes him to hesitate for a just a moment.

_A moment… an opening._

Unable to ignore such an opportunity, Felix rushes toward the horseman, his blade poised to attack. His arm feels tired and sluggish, but his feet propel him forward. His sword strikes the Death Knight, finding purchase between plates of his blackened armor on his arm.

The Death Knight grumbles, and Byleth is shouting at him all of a sudden.

He tries to pull the blade back, but to no avail—his arm too weak to cooperate. For once, he’s glad for his stupid arm and his _stupid_ injury, because his hand goes slack on the grip of his sword before the horseman grabs the weapon and tosses it aside like nothing. The blade clatters to the ground.

“Halt. You’re having a bit too much fun.”

There it is… _the helmet_.

The figure—none other than the Flame Emperor, Felix presumes—warps into view before them. Black robes with rich crimson trim and detailing, the same style of blackened armor as the Death Knight, but with garish feathers protruding from it. And the helmet, set with a mask to obscure the _true_ face beneath—it’s forged in the same foreign style as the armor, unlike anything that Felix has seen in Fódlan.

Except for in the arms of Edelgard back in the courtyard.

Felix wishes for nothing more than to have his blade back in his grasp— _and to have an arm able to wield it_ , he thinks darkly. As he stands fuming with anger at the sight of the Flame Emperor— _Edelgard_ —before him, just a few steps out of his grasp, he feels the prickling of magic at his fingertips.

“Cease your little game,” the Flame Emperor says to the Death Knight. The true voice is distorted by the mask.

“Understood. I will go. It was not fun anymore, anyway…”

The horseman warps away after leveling his gaze at Byleth for an uncomfortably long moment. “Same for the others,” the Flame Emperor adds, voice echoing about the chamber. “Your work here is done. Leave at once.”

The soldiers and mages all seem to step back from their opponents and warp away in various flashes of light. Seteth, now left without soldiers to fight off, is finally able to get a good look at the Flame Emperor. Normally, the advisor is too stuck-up and proper for Felix’s liking—but right now, his face was overcast with anger.

“What have you done with Flayn?” Seteth demands, practically bearing his teeth at the enemy. Byleth has to hold him back from marching straight up to the Flame Emperor.

“I have withdrawn my men. You should find her in that chamber unharmed,” the Flame Emperor nods to the chamber that had been heavily guarded and was milling about with those mages with the bird masks. _Wait… those same mages…_

“We will cross paths again. I am the Flame Emperor… It is I who will reforge the world.”

With a flash of purple light, the Flame Emperor warps away. Byleth and Seteth move quickly into the chamber to retrieve Flayn. Felix walks over to his fallen sword and picks it up. Sheathing it, he turns to face Ferdinand who looked like he is stuck to the spot on the floor.

He rests the rondel of his lance on the stone, his eyes just staring at the air in front of him. When Felix walks in front of him, his gaze doesn’t move to him or seem to waiver in the slightest. Felix is no healer or physician—far from it—but even he can tell that the man looks pale and shaken.

 _Way to go, Felix, you broke him. He saw what you saw, there’s no denying it._ Unease pools in his gut. _Maybe they could talk about it?_ he thinks, not that he’s ever been particularly skilled at talking through things with anyone.

“Hey, uh… Ferdinand. Are you OK?”

More blank stares. Goddess, he was surely fucked for this one. They were both _so fucked._

“The Flame Emperor...” he whispers finally, after an impossibly long moment that felt more like a century. Felix raises his eyebrows at Ferdinand. Not that he notices with all the staring into the void. “Edelg—”

Felix steps forward and grabs Ferdinand’s shoulders and gives him a curt shake, cutting him off from finishing the word on his tongue. Finally, he seems to snap out of it enough to look at him. “Listen, I know this is shocking or whatever. But we _cannot_ talk about this.”

“Wh—”

“Not here. Not now,” Felix reiterates with another shake of his shoulders. “Don’t tell _anyone_ else, it will make everyone lose their fucking minds and that’s the last thing we need right now… right?”

Though hesitant, Ferdinand nods. _Good, okay._

“Right. Now, we can talk later. About… this.”

“You knew?”

“Call it a suspicion or a hunch... or whatever,” he lies. It’s so easy for him to lie now… enough to make him sick. “Let’s just get Flayn and get out of here, OK?”

There he goes again with the staring. _Goddess, what a terrible fucking time for an existential crisis, von Noble. Ugh._ He wonders fleetingly if he could even tell Byleth before Ferdinand goes and blabs this to Dorothea and the whole damn monastery. But he figures if Byleth has to jump back to avoid this impending shit show, then he would have no memory of it anyway.

That’s enough to calm Felix… for now, at least.

* * *

The purple smoke of the darkest magic swirls about the chamber as Byleth and Seteth enter. There’s still a few masked mages scrambling about the room, knocking over glass vials and jars in their haste. They shatter on the floor, strange liquid spilling over the limestone and flowing in rivulets through the cracks in the stone. Byleth grabs one of the mages by a fistful of their robes and swiftly knocks them unconscious with a burst of magic. She sees another pair try to flee out the back of the chamber, but she extends the Sword of the Creator ahead, the fragments curling around the two like a whip.

Seteth finds Flayn laying on a steel-topped table amidst the smoke and stench. He lifts her up into his arms, cradling her head in his hand. Strands of her green hair stick to the blood caked on the fabric of his sleeve from his still bleeding wound. After careful and frantic inspection, he determines she is only unconscious and carries her back to a waiting Linhardt for further attention.

Byleth stumbles across the flash of orange hair she saw earlier, confirming it to be Annette. Checking for a pulse, she finds one… but she also notices fresh red bruising and dots all along the inside crease of her elbow—looking almost like pricks from a needle? Looking at the clutter strewn around the chamber, Byleth notices a mess of slender needles on a nearby table… though upon further inspection, they are unlike any sewing needle she’d ever seen.

The mages tore the fabric of Annette’s sleeve in trying to roll it up, likely in the mad scramble after they had arrived in the corridor outside. Byleth fixes her uniform before Caspar scoops her up and carries her out to the healers.

“What awful experiments were they _doing_ in here? Just _look_ at these elixirs and potions,” Sothis exclaims, studying a row of jars and vials filled with liquids of varying hues and viscosities.

_And those marks on Annette’s arms. And those strange needles._

“Well, didn’t Seteth say in your previous time that there were people after Flayn’s blood?”

Byleth nods at the goddess as she continues to pace through the aftermath of the dark experiments. _He did… and this time, we have some of those people detained for questioning,_ she thinks back, turning over stained pieces of parchment and stepping over spilled vials of goddess-knows-what.

Sothis hums. “Byleth, you’ve been looking under tables for a moment, now… do tell, what are you looking for?”

Byleth approaches the back of the chamber and sees a small door, disguised by the shadows. It’s slightly ajar. Before it lies a disarray of broken glass, more of those foreign needles, and something else…

Her.

 _I’m looking for_ her, _Sothis._

There she lies, her academy uniform wrinkled and stained with dirt and splatters of the potion spilled about on the ground. Her plait of cerise hair disheveled, soot smudged on her pallid cheek. Monica von Ochs. Kronya.

Her father’s killer.

 _She looks so helpless here,_ Byleth thinks despite herself.

She could so easily reach for her Sword and let it burn deliciously white-hot in her palm as she fillets her alive. But is she even alive at this point? Surely Monica is long dead… only a disguise. Is Kronya even human? _No, she’s not,_ Byleth decides, her hand pulling the Sword of the Creator out of its sheath. _She’s a monster._

Byleth knows a monster—she’s spent her entire life, this one and the last, hunting down monsters. Slaying demonic beasts and slaying villains and crooks and thieves. She knows a monster, and she’s looking right at one.

It would be so easy to kill her now. Right here. It would be so easy to plunge her Sword into her back as she lay defenseless on the ground. _A fitting end for what she did to my father._ It would be so easy to blame her death on the mages, on the Flame Emperor… though it would be difficult and disappointing to not shout from the monastery rooftops with joy after slaying this particular beast.

And if Byleth can’t use her Sword, she could always reach down and wrap her hands around her throat. Squeeze whatever stolen life she has left out of her… feeling her heartbeat slow as she writhes under her fingertips. _This monster doesn’t deserve a heartbeat._ The Sword of the Creator begins to smolder in Byleth’s hand, and she catches a glimpse of her illuminated face in a puddle of spilled concontion on the ground.

“Byleth, cease this at once,” the goddess orders.

Her grip on the Sword loosens, and its glow fades into the smoky dim of the chamber. She can feel Sothis’ eyes on her.

“This isn’t like you.”

Byleth is about to respond, but a noise from the other side of the door captures her attention. She regains a firm hold on the Sword, and steps over Monica to gently creak open the door even further. Her boots leave wet footprints on the stone floor of the annex as she steps inside. Looking around, she sees more of the dark mages.

Readying her sword, Byleth is prepared to swing… but then she realizes they have already been slain. Some of their beaked masks are cracked and shattered on the ground, others have their entrails hanging out of their stomachs as they are slumped against the wall. As she sheathes her Sword, Byleth swears she catches a glimpse of lavender hair in the shadows at the rear of the annex.

  
  


* * *

"Professor... please, allow me to express my eternal gratitude once more. Flayn is safe and unharmed, and I have you to thank for that. If something were to have happened to her..." Seteth trails off, pulling out the chair at his desk as Byleth sinks into the softer lounge chair in his office. 

"I'm just happy she's safe... Annette, too" she responds. "And that they have you and other students who are willing to help her when they are in need."

Seteth folds his hands atop his desk as he takes a seat. "Right, right. Indeed, I too am overjoyed. Needless to say, mere words could never express how thankful I am. I... am indebted to you."

He looks at her reverently. In truth, she is also grateful for him. He's taught her much in this life. Not to discredit all that he had done for her in the previous time, but this time is different. He had warmed to her earlier than before, they've already had deeper discussions than before.

Byleth feels terrible exploiting his hesitations about Rhea in order to have those conversations, but it's reassuring that he still shares some of the same questions and concerns as she does in this life.

And one thing is for certain—she was not going to wait until 5 years into the war to discuss them. Goddess knows Seteth won't broach the difficult topics first, so Byleth decides to act.

"I hate to ask something of you now, Seteth..." She trails off, tracing the pattern on her tights with her finger.

"No need for apologies, Professor. If you need a favor, I am happy to oblige."

She looks up at the advisor. His expression looks so sincere. While she hopes he will be receptive to the topic she's about to bring up, there's a pang of fear that strums inside her. Fear of being brushed off like her father has been doing since she got here... fear of being talked down to and smiled at like Rhea does anytime she wants to redirect the conversation.

"There's been something bothering me... for a while now." She takes a measured breath and hugs her knees to her chest. _I can always pulse back if things go awry,_ she tells herself before continuing. "I know Catherine was exiled from the Kingdom for her involvement in the Tragedy of Duscur. Why wasn't there an investigation?"

She can almost hear Seteth think, a puzzled look on his face for just the briefest moment as he scratches his beard. "The Church did investigate the Tragedy—"

"There's no record of it anywhere," she quips back. "I mean... I checked, and I couldn't find anything. And I'm sorry, what I meant was why no investigation into Catherine?"

When Byleth and Felix had last discussed it, the fact that the Church would welcome a fugitive of the Kingdom—into their Knighthood, no less—struck her as odd. And, given the close relationship between the Kingdom's most prominent lords and the Church, why wouldn't the Church intervene in the aftermath of the Tragedy?

Seteth hums. "From what I am aware of, the details of the investigations into the Tragedy of Duscur are held in utmost confidentiality," he explains. "I was not in employ of the Church at that time, so I am unable to speak more to the Tragedy."

"And Catherine?"

"I cannot speak to that, either. Archbishop Rhea is the one who took her in and knighted her," Seteth remarks, the corners of his mouth turning down. "For good reason, I am sure." Byleth plops her feet back on the floor with a huff and sits up straighter in response, scooting to the edge of the chair.

"Good reason?" she questions. "Do you just believe everything she says?"

"This is more of an interrogation than a favor, Professor," he says firmly.

His expression reveals his disappointment, lips pressed into a thin line. She realizes that her tone was accusing... and that he really isn't to blame for any of this.

"I'm... I'm sorry. That wasn't right of me to speak to you that way," Byleth admits, sinking down into the chair. _Perhaps I will have to pulse back._

Seteth nods, acknowledging her apology. A beat of silence passes and Byleth really does consider pulsing back until he finally speaks.

"It is clear that you're upset about this..." His words are measured. "May I ask why you are so concerned about Catherine? Did she do something to offend you?"

Did she? _No, not particularly._ Does all of the Church's secret-keeping bother her? _Yes..._ and it's slowing her progress.

"Like I said, it's been bothering me since we were ambushed at Magdred. I know I didn't write this in my report, so I'm sorry for that, too. But Lord Lonato called her _Cassandra_ and said that she _killed_ his son. That's what I've been trying to understand, and the whole thing just doesn't make sense to me."

There's another long pause between them as Seteth mulls over what she just said.

"Is this about the letter you took from my desk?"

Byleth immediately gets a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. _No use pulsing back now, he already knows. Oh, goddess._ She wrings her hands, beside herself with the shame of being caught... with the guilt of betraying the advisor's trust that she so carefully tried to build.

"I... yes," she admits, voice small. "I am sorry." She opens her mouth to explain her actions, to try to smooth things over, but he holds up a hand to stop her from speaking.

"I had a feeling it was you who made off with it..." he states simply with a sigh. Seteth stands up from his desk and takes a seat in the lounge chair opposite her.

"You knew? This whole time?" Byleth stammers. "Aren't you upset with me?"

"I understand your desire for answers. I also questioned why a obviously dated assassination note was left so blatantly in the hands of a Lord who was..." he pauses, considering what word to use.

"Sent to the slaughter?" Byleth completes his thought for him.

Seteth coughs and grimaces. "A brusque way of putting it, but yes. Few militias are capable of withstanding the Church forces. It was a futile attempt at rebellion," he shakes his head. "But as I'm sure you saw in the letter, what happened a few moons ago was not the first time that the Western Church has enlisted Lonato and his family in an attack against the Church."

"You mean an attack against Rhea?"

"You are not incorrect, Professor," Seteth replies thinly, folding his arms.

"Well, did Catherine kill Lonato's son, Christophe?" she asks bluntly.

"No. That I do know for certain," he affirms. "She turned him into the archbishop for treason."

Byleth clenches her fist around the fabric of her cloak. "For involvement in the Tragedy of Duscur, right?" Seteth nods, and she continues, now impassioned by her mounting frustration. "So she was excused for the same crime that he was executed for... where is the justice in that, Seteth? And how could he even be involved if the letter mentions him being in the Empire during the time of the Tragedy?"

He doesn't respond, so Byleth keeps going.

"And the Holy Mausoleum... what were they after then? Why would they want the Sword of the Creator when it could turn them into terrible beasts! And you saw the marks they left on their arms... what is so special about Flayn's blood... about _Annette's_ blood, that they kidnap and experiment on them?"

She's trembling now, practically yelling at the advisor sitting before her.

"Does the Church not even _care?_ Will they hide their finding just like they did with Duscur?"

Seteth bows his head. "I... I don't have answers for those questions," he says softly.

"I'm not," Byleth starts, more gently than before. "I'm not asking, expecting you to have all the answers, Seteth. I'm just... frustrated. There's so many things that I don't know. I don't even know who I am... why I can wield this Sword, why I can hear—"

She stops mid-sentence. _Why I can hear the goddess. Why I can see her, why she walks with me._ She had never shared this with him before, and she stops herself from sharing it now. Only Felix knows, and she wants it to remain that way, for now. It could be... dangerous... if someone from the Church were to find out—even Seteth, who she's certain is well-meaning and trustworthy.

"Do you trust me, Seteth?"

He raises his gaze to make eye contact with her. "You saved Flayn," he says with resolve.

 _Not a_ yes, _but close enough, right?_

"Do you trust Lady Rhea?" she asks next. Seteth's expression falters slightly, but he doesn't say anything. She sighs—it's not like she was expecting him to admit such a thing, but his hesitation and non-answer is hopeful.

"I don't know what she sees in me, and there was a time where you didn't see it either. My father doesn't trust her... but he won't even speak to me as to why," she says, studying the pattern of the rug on the floor of his office. "And neither will you, I guess."

A pregnant pause falls between them.

"I'll help you find answers, Byleth," he says sincerely, breaking the silence. "I said I was indebted to you, and you... you ask good questions. You shouldn't have to live in uncertainty. We shouldn't have to... Ah, you know what I mean."

When she doesn’t respond or look up at him, Seteth gives her that same sigh he gives Flayn—the one when she’s upset with him and he’s about to agree to her request or whim. “And, to your earlier point, I promise you that I will personally see to it that the mages we captured will be interrogated.” She finally meets his gaze, and it's serious. He’s serious. “You will take part in the interrogation, as will I.”

He offers her a smile; she returns it weakly—a yes, a thank you, and a thank goddess. And while his support makes her feel some relief, the dread and urgency is still there.

"I'm afraid, Seteth," she whispers. "That I'm running out of time—"

The door to his office creaks open, and someone pokes their head inside. "Excuse me, Seteth?"

"Oh! Pardon my interruption," the man apologizes, bowing slightly. "I can come back later, if you'd like."

The advisor stands, welcoming him into the room. "No need, Aelfric. We were just wrapping up."

The man bows again and thanks Seteth for his time, smiling and nodding at Byleth, too. She rises from her seat to stretch her legs before leaving. Seteth walks her to the door.

"Do not fret, Professor," he tells her gently, giving the back of her shoulder a pat. "Fódlan was not built in a day. We shall speak again soon, yes?"

  
  


* * *

Felix nabs a dish from the dining hall, and he sits cross-legged before it on the floor of his room. He watches intently as Lysithea drops a slip of parchment into the ceramic dish, then expertly casts a spell to set it aflame. It curls as it burns, ending up a pile of ash within seconds.

"Your turn," she says, placing another slip in the dish.

The swordsman holds his hands out in front of him, and as the spell runs through his head, he feels a tingling in his fingers. The energy focuses in his palms and a fiery ball manifests between his hands, suspended fantastically in mid-air.

 _Oho, it's working_ , he thinks to himself. The corner of his mouth quirks upward in a smile.

"Great! Now, hit the target!" Lysithea directs him.

Felix stares at the parchment, the intense warmth of the fire spell warming his hands. As he concentrates, the tingling in his fingers grows almost painful. His brow furrows as he tries to push the spell out of his hands and toward the parchment, but the damn thing doesn't seem to want to budge. After a while, the spell actually does burn his left hand before it fizzles out in a puff of smoke.

He shakes out his hand, grimacing and swearing as he looks closer to inspect the blisters already forming on the heel of his palm.

"Well, are you going to just stare at it, or are you going to heal it?"

Felix grumbles at the white-haired girl. _If I_ can _even heal it... I couldn't heal Manuela. Like I could heal_ anything _at this point._ It's been weeks of him studying with Lysithea, practicing rigorously every day, with minimal success. She has been incredibly patient with him and his lack of progress... and his bursts of heated frustration at himself. He prides himself on being a quick study... but it is obvious to him that matters of the sword are much, much different than matters of magic.

 _Perhaps I should just wait until my arm is healed,_ he thinks as he hovers his hand over his burned one. _Just face it that you're only cut out to swing a sword. Did you_ really _think you could actually—_

The soothing glow of white light interrupts his thoughts as it erases the blistered skin from his palm, the hot aching pain fading away almost instantaneously.

"Thank you?" he murmurs to Lysithea, assuming it was her who ultimately healed him.

"You're thanking me?" she exclaims incredulously. "Look, Felix... you did this!"

_What—_

He looks down at his hand, and the girl is right—he damn well did heal himself. A pulse of confidence floods through him as he regards the white light emanating from his fingertips. Lysithea excitedly taps the ceramic dish on the floor, urging him to try again.

"Now give the fire spell another try, Felix. This time, just try to focus your energy through your third-eye onto the parchment," she tells him.

"My _third_ eye?"

She tuts. "Yes, your _third_ eye. The one here," Lysithea explains, pressing a finger to her forehead. "It's also called your mind's eye. It's not about seeing with your physical eyes as it is picturing and imagining the spell—the energy and the outcome."

"This is stupid. Don't you have to use your real two eyes to see where you're casting the spell?" Felix folds his arms across his chest.

Lysithea sighs and shakes her head. He can tell her patience is wearing thin.

"Were you looking at your hand when you healed it?"

His eyes float down to the silvery scarring on his palm. _Damn, she's right._ He looked away and it just sort of... happened. He flexes the fingers of both hands and closes his eyes. The tingling begins as he goes over the spell in his head... or his mind's eye or _whatever._ The fiery orb of magic is between his palms now—he can feel it.

_C'mon, Felix._

_Focus._

He opens his eyes and he sees the black edges of the parchment as it burns in a steady flame.

"Holy shit."

"Oh, Seiros— you did it! See!" Lysithea says, her hand curled into a tiny fist of excitement as she cheers on the swordsman. Her grin is so wide, Felix thinks it might fall off her face. She plucks another piece of parchment from the pile next to her and drops it into the dish.

"Again."

And once more, Felix ignites the parchment. Lysithea claps excitedly.

"You really got it!"

Felix snorts. "Yeah, can't read a lick of the magical mumbo jumbo in those books... but I definitely got it," he snarks as he sets another piece of parchment alight.

He really _is_ getting the hang of this. 

"One step at a time," Lysithea says, getting up to stretch her limbs. "Eventually I'll have to teach you how to read spells and alchemical formulas, or else you really _will_ fail Hanneman's class." She flashes a cheeky grin at him, much to his ire, pacing over to snoop about his desk.

The girl plucks a book from the row of them lined up. She thumbs through the pages, her face looking delighted. "Aha! This is what you spend your time reading?" she questions, her mouth curled up into a smirk. Felix looks at the title embossed on the spine of the book and rolls his eyes.

"It's _The Sword of Kyphon,_ and yes—it's a _great_ book. Have you even bothered to read it?" he asks pointedly, feeling a tad defensive. The book was his and Glenn's favorite—Felix has many fond memories of his mother reading pages from the story as he and his brother wrap themselves in the covers before bed. Not that he'd ever mention those personal memories to anyone... it's unlike him to be sentimental. 

"I have read it, but who would have thought you'd enjoy silly legends." She shuffles about the other clutter on Felix's desk. "Or collecting rocks, it would seem."

Amidst the collection of whetstones on his desk, Lysithea pulls out a different stone, this one smaller and rounder. The spell on Felix's fingertips fizzles out as he stares up at her and at the crest stone in her hand. _First Ferdinand, now this?_ He swallows as he watches her turn over the stone in her hand, inspecting how parts of it refract blue light. 

He sticks out his hand like a petulant child. "Yeah? So what if I do? And I also enjoy you not touching my things, so give me the rock back."

"Pretty odd for you to be so worked up over a—" she stops herself, her brow furrowing all of a sudden. Felix watches as her fingertips trace over the mysterious crest symbol carved into the face of the stone. "Wait, where did you find this?"

_Play dumb, Felix. Just play dumb and maybe she will drop it._

"I dunno."

Her brow deepens and her pink eyes flick up to glare at him. "So you collect rocks but you don't know where you found it? Do you even _know_ what this is?" Lysithea demands, holding the stone out to show him the carving.

 _Seiros, fuck_. Felix's fingers curl and he drops his outstretched arm. _Yep, first Ferdinand, now this._ And to make matters even worse, Byleth has been out and about doing goddess-knows-what the last two days, nowhere to be found. He can’t catch a break.

"Look, I'm even not supposed to _have_ that stupid stone," he hisses, keeping his volume low to demonstrate the gravity of the situation. "And no, I don't _know_ what it is. Do I look like a crest scholar to you?"

Felix's eyes go wide and he purses his lips together, refraining from slapping his hand over his mouth or crawling under the floorboards to hide himself. _So much for acting dumb... perhaps you really_ are _dumb._ Without a blade in his hand, he really makes a mess of things. Felix really needs Byleth to turn back and undo all of his stupid mistakes.

He wishes he had the power to jump back so he could swiftly exit this scenario he just put himself in. He thinks of a thousand better hiding places for that blasted stone. But most of all, he wonders if it's too soon to try to use magic to ignite himself into flames.

"Ah, but you _do_ know it's a _crest_ carved here."

"I-I don't— it was just a guess," he stammers. 

"Right, right... you're a rock collector, not a crest scholar. But your guess is correct, I think," Lysithea says, tapping the carving on the stone. "In fact, I think I've seen this crest somewhere before."

  
  


* * *

Byleth dreams of Bernadetta teaching her how to cross-stitch. She dreams of the time she tried on Lorenz’s paladin armor as a joke. She dreams of the book club that Ashe started. For once, she dreams of innocuous things from her previous life… almost like flipping through her memories like they are pages of an old tome.

Her dreams aren’t pleasant recollections for long.

The vignettes take a turn toward the darker side of her past. Bernadetta’s limbs still warm and pink strewn across the cobblestone streets of Myrddin. The snapping of bone as Lorenz’ horse tramples over her leg as she shoves Lysithea out of his path. And the way his blood paints the coat of his steed after Ferdinand sinks his lance into his middle—a brilliant crimson, fitting for the Empire he chose to serve. The look in Ashe’s eyes as she—

Byleth wakes before those events can replay, but her nightmares were so vivid and real that there was no way she was falling back asleep tonight.

She shrugs into a linen shirt and pulls on a pair of tan breeches. She grabs her blanket and slings it over her shoulder, her pillow tucked under her arm. While Byleth considered knocking on Felix’s door to see if he was still awake, she figured that those chances were slim. He’s been looking for her, she knows, but their schedules just haven’t coincided enough to find time to catch up after Flayn’s rescue. _Tomorrow,_ she tells herself. _Besides, we have a body to look for._

Tonight, however, she opts for the library. When soft candlelight flickers into the din of the hall, she assumes it is Linhardt up late researching as she often finds him there late at night.

She stops under the archway to the library when she sees a familiar head of blonde hair.

"Do you normally go to the library this late?"

Dimitri looks up from his book, mouth slightly open in surprise at her. "Not normally, no,” he shakes his head. “Do you normally bring a blanket and pillow to the library?" His mouth quirks into a playful smile at the items in her hands.

"I actually do, thank you very much,” Byleth feigns offense. “How else am I supposed to curl up with a good book?"

She pulls out the seat across the table from him, fluffing her pillow before placing it against the chair’s back. The blanket is pulled around her like a dramatic cape. Sliding into the chair, she rests an elbow on the table as she leans her cheek into her palm. "I can't sleep, and I've read all the books Seteth lent me… so I'm here to find another."

_Though I've found you, instead._

Dimitri hums in response. She observes the stack of books beside the prince. _He must have been here a while._ "Please don't tell me you're up this late studying for one of my classes,” Byleth begs.

"No, no, rest assured,” he offers a small smile. “Well, let's say I can't sleep either."

"Another nightmare?"

He nods.

 _He really does look exhausted,_ she thinks. The blue eyes under his blonde lashes are fatigued, lacking their normal clarity. The dark circles forming under his eyes are puffy from more than just one sleepless night. Sleep evading the prince is nothing new, she knows. 

"I'm sorry, Dimitri. I don't mean to impose…"

"You're not, please don't worry,” he tells her, extending his arm across the table toward her. He likely had the intention to gently touch her arm, to ease her worries about him, but his hand stops just short of hers. She watches his hesitation as he pulls back his arm slightly. “It would be… calming to just read with you."

Dimitri sighs and his fingers curl back into his palm. She lifts her gaze to look back at his tired eyes.

"I would like that. I might doze off, though, so I apologize in advance," she jokes, earning another smile from him. Byleth feels warm at the sight of it. _Goddess, please never lose that smile,_ she wishes.

"Then let me go brew us some tea, Professor," Dimitri says. He moves to rise from his chair and she shushes him, waving at him to sit back down, that it isn’t necessary for him to go through that trouble. "No, no. I insist," he tells her.

Byleth thanks him as he takes a chamberstick and plods out of the library and down to the dining hall. She regards the lines of muscle visible through the fabric of his nightshirt as it pulls around his shoulders and sighs.

Standing up, she draws her blanket tighter around her. She browses the bookshelves for something new to read, but nothing inspires her. Idly, she wonders if she should’ve visited the underground library tonight instead. _If I wanted to read, perhaps…_ That was her original intention—the idea of simply spending time with Dimitri was enough for Byleth to deviate from her plan.

She paces back to their table and surveys his stack of books and realizes quickly that they were not texts for any of his classes. _Register of Empire Nobles, Southern Church of Seiros Death Registry 1170-75… The Treatises of Hresvelg: Wilhelm VI - Ionius IX..._ Byleth turns over the cover of the book Dimitri had left open— _Church of Seiros Tithing Record._

Curious, she opens the book again and regards what he had last been reading. The house name inked at the top of the page is… Arundel. Her brow furrows slightly. _As in Dimitri’s uncle, Lord Arundel?_ She keeps reading.

It’s a ledger of the house’s donations made to the Church. There’s many entries, of quite large sums, no less. That is, until the entries stop abruptly in the middle of the second page in year 1174. _Why would he be reading this so late—_

"I'm back, Professor.”

She steps away from the table and quickly moves to Dimitri, who is carefully balancing the chamberstick and two cups of tea. After taking the teacups from him, she joins him back at the table, but not before plucking a random book off the shelf, first. Dimitri flips his book to another page and Byleth warms her hands around the steaming cup of chamomile tea. They both enjoy each other’s company while reading.

Byleth’s choice of book was rather boring, but it didn’t matter as long as he was across from her. She takes a sip of her tea.

"May I ask for your council on something, Dimitri?"

He raises his head from his reading and looks at her. "Yes, of course. Though I'm not certain I am the best to give advice," he murmurs. She waves off his self-deprecating comment, reaching over and gently slapping his hand.

“That’s nonsense if I’ve ever heard it,” she chastises him. “You've only ever given me thoughtful advice.”

Dimitri grimaces and nods. “I’m glad you hear you think so, Professor. But nonetheless, I’m listening.”

"I… I never knew my mother. And I know that you never knew yours either…" she trails off, wary about broaching a topic that is sensitive for both of them. _I’ve never met her, but I miss her. I miss my mother,_ she thinks. Feeling her lip tremble and tears threaten to fall, she wrings her hands and turns her face away from him to hide her expression. 

She gasps softly when she feels his hands wrap around hers. He’s not wearing his gloves and gauntlets, she notices. The pads of his fingers are still rough, despite him always wearing them during battle and training.

"It's OK, you can speak plainly about it,” Dimitri tells her, rubbing the back of her knuckles with his thumb.

"Right… so I've just been thinking a lot. About her, I mean,” Byleth says. “I want to know more about my mother so I can honor her, so I can feel connected to her… but my father doesn't want to talk about her. It seems to make him… _upset._ I know he misses her. Is it wrong of me to ask him?"

"Don't ever think that it's wrong to want to know your mother, Professor,” he tells her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Though I do understand Jeralt being reluctant to share memories of someone so dear to him, someone that he lost."

"Did your father ever tell you about your mother? About what she was like?"

The prince nods, removing his hand from hers. "He did. Though I could tell it was painful for him to recount even the happiest of memories of her… even after he married my stepmother," he explains. "He loved my stepmother dearly, but his love for my mother never once faltered, even after death. I guess there are some people you never stop loving."

There’s a stinging feeling in Byleth’s chest at his words, like the air is being squeezed out of her lungs.

"I… can see that,” she agrees. They finish their tea, and Byleth stands and yawns, stretching her arms. The prince rises after her, looking down at their empty teacups.

"Thank you again, Dimitri. For the tea… for everything."

Byleth places a hand on his shoulder and lifts herself up on her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s warm. She pulls away and smiles up at him. There’s something in the blue of his eyes that she can’t quite place... It makes her feel a poignant sadness, and she wishes she could just wrap her arms around him until that look in his eyes goes away.

Dimitri bends down, and his eyes flutter shut. He kisses her on the lips, his mouth tender and meek on hers. Her eyes close, too.

But he pulls away from her as quickly as the kiss began.

"I am so sorry, Professor. That was inappropriate of me,” he shakes his head, his face deeply flushed. He takes another step back from her, increasing the distance between them.

"It's alright,” Byleth says gently.

"No, I am sorry. I am so tired, I'm not thinking clearly. I must have severely misread… all of this. Everything,” he bows his head in shame. The tone of his voice gives Byleth that pain in her chest again and she hates it. “I apologize, I should go now.”

He turns and grabs the teacups to carry them back to the kitchen, away from her. "Please wait,” she pleads. One of her hands darts out from under her blanket and grasps his forearm. “You didn't misread anything, Dimitri."

"W-what?" His eyes flicker to hers, uncertain.

"I said you didn't misread. And please stop apologizing to me… there's no need. You did nothing wrong."

"You…"

"Please stay?” she asks him, her eyes staring up into his. “Read with me a while longer? That’s all I want to do, if that is OK with you."

After a few seconds, Dimitri agrees. She realizes she had been holding her breath until then, finally releasing a sigh of relief. Of happiness. Byleth moves her hand from the prince’s arm and shyly curls it around his. They’ve held hands like this so many times in another life, but it still makes her face warm and her stomach flutter. 

They sit next to each other in one of the corners of the library, leaning their backs against the bookcases. Byleth offers him the pillow, but he declines—ever the gentleman. She tucks it behind her back as they get comfortable. They share the blanket as they read silently beside each other, enjoying one another's company once again.

"Is this a dream?" Dimitri murmurs, tilting his chin to look down at her next to him. His hair falls into his eyes a little.

"Do you wish it was?"

"No," he breathes.

"Then no, it's not a dream,” Byleth smiles. Their arms are pressed against each other, but she leans into him a little. The physical contact reaffirms that this is in fact very much real.

He leans his head back against the bookcase and laughs breathily. "You're funny, Professor."

Byleth sets down her book and nestles further under the blanket. She rests her cheek against his shoulder, half-heartedly reading the words on the page of his book—a story about Loog, the King of Lions. After a while, she is content to drift off right there, but the prince ends up falling asleep first. His head leans over against hers, pieces of his blonde hair tickling her forehead.

She stifles a giggle and nudges closer to him. Turning to face him slightly, careful of course not to wake the sleeping prince, she threads an arm around his torso to embrace him gently. She tilts her head to press a kiss to his jaw before settling beside him and falling asleep to the sound of his breathing.

* * *

In the days after his and Byleth's conversation, Seteth can't stop thinking about what she said.

"Where is the justice in that, Seteth?"

_I've been wondering the same. About more things than you know._

"Does the Church not even care?"

_I know I cannot speak for the Church as a whole, and I now have doubt that I can even speak for Archbishop Rhea... but I can speak for myself and I do care. So very much._

"Do you trust me, Seteth?"

_Yes._

"Do you trust Lady Rhea?"

_I... don't know._

Seteth seldom had disagreements with Rhea until Byleth came to the monastery. It was after that moment that the archbishop seemed to change. Seteth had always appreciated the cautious nature of Rhea, which made him glad to closely vet each addition to the Church's staff, each potential alliance or trade deal.

But allowing Byleth and her father into the monastery employ—making a young mercenary girl a professor and welcoming Jeralt, who previously fled from his duty as the captain of the Knights of Seiros in the midst of a terrible fire over two decades ago, back into the Knights... it was irrational to say the least. 

Seteth would be lying if he said he wasn't curious as to who Jeralt and Byleth were to Lady Rhea. And if it wasn't apparent to him then, it became clear when the archbishop so willingly handed over the Sword of the Creator—the single most powerful Relic in all of Fódlan—to the mercenary-turned-professor. The fact that she could wield such a weapon should be _impossible..._

He told the archbishop as much, but she was... hardly concerned. In fact, she was _over the moon_ about it.

Seteth thought his hair might turn grey at how much he turned over that whole situation in his head... That Rhea would be _pleased_ to see the Crest of Flames survive though the centuries... Somehow... even after she went to the ends of Fódlan and Morfis, Brigid and Sreng to ensure that any relatives of Nemesis were painstakingly hunted down. Either way, the bloodline of that scourge Nemesis still walks this realm—why didn't that drive the anger she keeps hidden inside her?

It was painful enough to see the students at the academy with crests that their ancestors stole. The memories of his old friends and family resurfacing each time he sees them activate their crests while sparring... or during battle. He winces and shoves the thoughts of the previous battle away.

Perhaps Seteth would be upset at Byleth's crest... if she knew anything at all about crests and the history of Fódlan. She didn't even know that she bore a crest! She didn't know who the Saints were or what happened during the War of Heroes... much less _who_ Nemesis was.

He also can't stop thinking about what she had told him on multiple occasions with sorrowful expressions and eyes that were dark with defeat... that her father won't talk to her. After his and Byleth's latest conversation, Seteth shuffles some of the Knights around to return Jeralt to the monastery for at least a few days.

_If he was not away on a mission, he surely would have time for conversation, right?_

But within a day of Jeralt's arrival, even he can notice he's avoiding Byleth. He empathizes with Byleth, whom he knows deserves answers to her many questions about the world around her, about her family, and the mysterious origins of her crest and bloodline. He knows too well the pain and guilt that stems from being unable to be at your child’s side to aid, protect, and guide them.

So when he spots Jeralt across the hall in his office—a rare moment that his door is open since his early return—Seteth does not squander the opportunity to get a word in.

"Good afternoon, Jeralt. I trust your ride back to the monastery was a safe one?" he greets the former captain, approaching his office.

It's hard for Seteth to ignore the cautious, ever-evaluating expression that he always bears when he is around. Byleth did tell him that Jeralt does not trust Rhea... _it would make sense that he also does not trust me by extension._ Regardless, the advisor remains cordial.

"Oh, Seteth. It's you. Yeah, the ride was uneventful as it always is," Jeralt says gruffly.

Seteth nods, unsure of where to take the conversation next. He has so much he wants to say to the man, but has no idea where to even begin. Thankfully, Jeralt continues talking after a pause.

"Though I heard the monastery has been far from boring. I swear, everytime I leave the monastery, things all go to hell," he laughs darkly. "But in all seriousness, I'm glad—that your sister and the other students are alright."

"I am glad, too. I have your daughter to thank, actually."

"So I hear. She's a good kid."

"She is. She also has a lot weighing heavily on her," Seteth tells him. "I can assist her with her students and lectures, and provide her guidance on her missions from the archbishop..."

Jeralt turns to give Seteth his full attention now, waiting for him to continue."...but I cannot adequately aid her with everything, Jeralt. She cares for you very much. I believe it is _your_ guidance that she needs right now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE DID IT, KIDS. THEY KISSED. ♥(ˆ⌣ˆԅ)
> 
> _Also,_
> 
> Lysithea: It’s not a boulder... it’s a rock!  
> Felix: Why must every 11 minutes of my life be filled with misery?
> 
> Thanks so much if you've made it this far~ I can't make any promises about when the next chapter will be posted due to my job, but I will do my best. I hope you all can understand!


	7. The Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linhardt hogs the whole library. Hubert just wants some breakfast. Hilda has trust issues. Edelgard receives a warning. Lysithea requires a Fódlandy. Ferdinand makes demands. 
> 
> “We two alone will sing like bids i' th' cage.”  
>  _-King Lear, 5.3.10_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all--I'm back with a long chapter :) My outline for this fic had this chapter cover a lot more material, but it got way too long. So I decided to split it up so this chapter is under 20k words. (Like, it's not lost on me that my 15k-20k chapters are ridiculous as is, haha.) So the next chapter will be posted within the next week, because it's pretty much written already!
> 
> Anyway, thank you for all of your comments and kudos--they always make my day!

“Come now, Pan… the entire castle and villages for miles around are celebrating tonight. Celebrating another victory, thanks to you.” A broad-shouldered blonde waves one hand in Pan’s direction, his other holding a cup of mead that he raises to his lips. “Let us drink to your success before we head south.”

Byleth watches as the blonde takes a swig from his cup as he leans against the heavy timber of the desk in the center of the room. There’s a chill in the air, though it’s abated by the crackling of the fireplace. Piecing together the scene before her, and judging by the furs and the royal blue that the blonde is wearing, it’s Loog she is watching.

Though, after further surveyance of the room, she realizes she is not the only one watching. A raven-haired man stands quietly with arms folded at the back of the room, behind the King of Lions. _The Sword and Shield of Faerghus,_ Byleth thinks. _Kyphon, must be._ _What a dream this is… I shouldn’t read so close to bed._

Kyphon’s eyes shine warm and chestnut as the light of the fire dances across his features; he looks rather serious, though a smirk betrays it once Loog presses the second advisor once more.

She remembers Ferdinand telling her about Pan, the overlooked strategist for the King through the War of the Eagle and Lion. He worked quietly but diligently to execute a successful rebellion against the Adrestian Empire centuries ago--never losing a single battle. Ferdinand, along with the books she has read since pulsing back, called the man “undesiring” of legacy and praise as he was completely devoted to his friend and king. 

The Pan in this dream seems fitting of that description as he laughs meekly, brushing off Loog’s insistent persuasion to join the Faerghans’ celebratory feast.

“I’m afraid I am not much fun when it comes to festivities, my lord,” Pan replies.

“Nonsense,” Loog snorts, setting down his mead on the desk. “Certainly the _guest of honor_ at this feast can at least drop by for one drink? And there’s no need to call me that when we’re speaking as friends.”

“Ah, very well. My apologies, Loog.”

Kyphon steps away from the wall and stretches his arms. “It’s just one drink,” he says, tone stern yet playful. The man plucks the cup off the desk and downs the rest of the liquid as Loog scoffs in mock offense. “Can’t share a round with your comrades, Pan?”

“I’m afraid I must decline,” the strategist frowns and bows his head. “There’s still much to be done to prepare before we depart… supplies and trade routes to secure, more soldiers to gather… Let me stay behind and work while you two go ahead and celebrate your victory.”

 _“Our_ victory,” Loog corrects. “I don’t know how you do it, but there’s not a chance in hell we’d have made it this far without you.”

Kyphon’s face hardens for a moment before tugging on Loog’s sleeve to pull him toward the door. “Let us not disturb his work, then. Come.” He throws a hand in the hair to wave back at the strategist as they exit, leaving Byleth alone in the office with Pan.

Not that he seems to notice--it’s one of the dreams where she’s just a phantom or a fly on the wall, like her dreams of muddied battle fields and her most recent dreams of Dimitri. She quite prefers those dreams… the ones where she’s not _really_ there, the ones where the events don’t involve or include her.

So when Pan begins to gather his items from around the room and pull his furs tighter around his shoulders… Byleth finds it fit to follow the man as he exits the office and roams around the castle halls. Call it curiosity or call it a whim--she certainly isn’t going to sit idly by as heroes of old walk and talk about in her dreams.

Even though she’s positive he can’t hear her, Byleth suppresses a snicker when Pan’s teeth start to chatter in the cold air outside as he paces down a dark and deserted arcade. _Perhaps he’s a southerner,_ she considers for a moment. The night’s frost is already setting in on the grass, and it softly crunches under his feet as he steps out into the courtyard.

“Pan!”

Byleth’s feet stutter and slow; she’s content to be nosy, but only from the passageway as she looks on as Pan approaches a cloaked figure on the other side of the courtyard. It’s far too dark to see who it is that called out his name… but who would have thought that the humble and unassuming strategist would opt for a midnight rendezvous over a glorious feast and wine overflowing with his friends? Surely not Byleth, for one.

 _Is he meeting a lover?_ She doesn’t remember any risque details from any book or legend told to her about this seemingly very plain man. She listens in with a childish curiosity. But would anyone blame her for wanting to learn more about someone that history remembers so little?

“You mustn’t be here,” Pan pleads in a low voice.

“Are _you_ not the one who asked me here tonight?” The figure’s face is obscured by the hood of its cloak, but their tone is sharp and teasing.

Pan’s expression falters into one of frustration for the first time. “Yes, our business need not be out in the open for all to see.”

“It is dark out… and your future king and his merry men are enjoying a warm fire and a cup of hydromeli or two--”

“Or four,” Pan corrects.

The figure outstretches their arms and rests their hands on the strategist’s shoulders. _“Exactly._ See, they’re too drunk to be bothered. Let them enjoy their drink while we work on our _business._ After all, you require me for something, isn’t that right?”

 _How scandalous,_ Byleth thinks. She flushes with embarrassment at their dialogue.

Pan groans. “Yes, but I’d much rather us discuss matters in my quarters, Chi--”

“Hard at work on those supply routes, I see.”

Byleth’s head swivels along with Pan and the mysterious robed figure to face Kyphon as he paces toward them, a cup still in one hand and the other resting on the pommel of his sword. Pan makes his second expression of the night--one of abject horror at his lord’s right-hand walking in on this apparent clandestine meeting. Byleth curls her hand around one of the cold limestone arches as she looks on with baited breath.

“It may not look it, but we are making great progress on securing a supply line for you through my territory, Kyphon,” the figure chimes in. They unfurl their hood to finally reveal their face. It’s a man with a tanned complexion, equally charming and commanding with startling blue eyes. “Oh, and lest us forget those negotiations with Lady Tethys that you so _desperately_ need.”

“Margrave Charon,” the swordsman remarks plainly, his eyes narrowing at the noble. “You didn’t look like yourself. I was… mistaken, it would seem.”

 _Well, that makes two of us,_ Byleth thinks to herself.. 

“Or maybe you’ve had one too many drinks, Fraldarius. I can’t hold a candle to him in battle,” the Margrave jests, murmuring mostly to Pan and nudging him with his elbow, “but at least I can hold my liquor better than him.”

“Hmph. Funny,” Kyphon replies dryly.

Pan stands uncomfortably between the two nobles; he shifts his weight from one foot to the other with a nervous energy, Byleth notices. _What a peculiar man._ She yawns, covering her mouth with her fist. When she opens her eyes again, the three men in the courtyard are staring directly at her.

 _Did they hear that?_ Byleth stiffens. _Perhaps all my dreams are destined to become nightmares._

“Ah, gentlemen… you all brought the celebrations out here without me?”

She turns and it’s none other than Loog standing in the archway beside her. Byleth lets out a shaky sigh of relief when she realizes the men were looking at their lord, not at her. “Charon, Pan… come inside and let’s get a cup of wine in your hand, eh?” He waves the trio over to him, and they chatter amongst themselves as they head under the covered passageway and presumably back to the grand hall.

Before she can pivot to follow them in the shadows, Byleth feels a heavy warmth drape over her shoulders. Flinching, she turns to face the King of Lions who places a heavy cloak with fur trimmings around her frame. She regards him in her moment of shock; his face red from drink and hair unkempt and long, nearing his jaw from months or maybe even _years_ of war and battle.

“You, too, Byleth. It’s cold out here,” he tells her. Loog presses one of his hands on the back of her shoulder blade to usher her along. Her legs feel heavy like blocks of stone.

“It’s morning, now. Time to wake up.”

“Byleth?”

Her eyes peel open, but her vision is blurry at first. On reflex she tugs the fur and fabric of the cloak tighter around her, to steal a little more of that comforting warmth… only to realize that it’s just her blanket.

Byleth squints and realizes she’s curled into something solid--and that something was Dimitri. _Oh._ She flinches again, and the prince shifts slightly. He’s still sleeping, his chest rising and falling with each breath. Byleth’s cheeks warm at their closeness and her recollection of last night. Light from daybreak filters in through the one skylight at the center of the library, illuminating specks of dust that float and swirl around the space like little snowflakes.

Carefully, she slips out of their embrace, leaving the blanket behind to give Dimitri a few more moments of sleep--he needs them. Byleth grabs his book from last night from the floor beside him and pads out to the center of the library, stretching her limbs.

“Ah, you’re awake Professor,” a voice exclaims from above. Horrified, Byleth looks up to see Linhardt climbing down the ladder from the mezzanine. “Oh, is that another book? Don’t worry, I’ll take that,” he says, plucking the tome from her hands. “Hmm, _King Loog and the Beasts of Gwenhwyvar._ Quite a tale. Don’t worry, I will put it away just like I did the other ones you left laying out.”

“Thanks...” Byleth says awkwardly. She bunches the fabric of her sleeve in her fist. “You’re here awfully… early?”

Linhardt hums as he browses the shelves of books. “I used to like coming here late at night. No one around, just peace and quiet while I work on my research,” he yawns, slipping the tome back in the spot whence it came. “But lately, others have had the same idea. So for the last few weeks, I’ve been trying to be the first person here in the morning. _Today,_ however, it looks like you beat me here.”

He gives Byleth a knowing look. She feels sick. But before she can open her mouth to respond or even _try_ to explain the situation to make it look not at all like it does… Dimitri wanders out from behind the bookshelves, his hair mussed and the blanket and pillow in his arms.

“Professor,” he murmurs, the sleep still in his voice. “There you are--” His shoulders stiffen and his eyes widen at the sight of the young mage. “Uh, Linhardt?”

“Good morning, your Highness. Fancy seeing you here to study so bright and early,” the young mage replies.

Byleth grows equally as flustered as Dimitri. “Yes, but Linhardt _just now_ got here, and he needs the library for his research,” she stammers despite trying desperately to keep her tone even. “So perhaps it’s best that you… head back to your quarters to study?”

“R-right, I was just leaving anyway,” the prince agrees.

The heavy wooden doors to the library swing open, causing Byleth to jump. _Goddess, what_ else _could possibly--_

“Professor, _there_ you are. I’ve been looking all over for you for the last _four days--_ Wait. What is going on?”

Felix stands in the middle of the library, arms folded and looking between the three of them. His eyes eventually narrow on Dimitri with his wrinkled Academy shirt that’s half-untucked and his disheveled hair. _Of course,_ Byleth thinks to herself sourly.

“I was just leaving,” Dimitri repeats himself quickly.

“What, to go sleep in a _real_ bed?” Felix sneers back at him.

The prince looks down at the ground and doesn’t reply--Byleth isn’t sure if it’s because it’s too early for another verbal sparring match with Felix or because he’s feeling as embarrassed as she is. “Good luck with your research, Linhardt,” he says quietly, nodding in the mage’s direction. Clutching the blanket and pillow, Dimitri turns to Byleth and offers a terse “Professor” and bow of the head before practically running out of the library.

Felix clears his throat loudly.

“Well anyway, Professor, there’s something we need to discuss. After you’re done with… _whatever_ it is you’re doing here... Meet me outside the classroom,” he demands, sounding more on-edge than usual. Byleth nods, and Felix takes his leave.

She runs her hands through the hair at her scalp and lets out a breath that she didn’t realize she had been holding in this long.

“I didn’t _just_ get here, you know.”

 _Oh, I figured as much._ Byleth turns tiredly to face Linhardt; she only has enough energy to muster an exasperated sigh in his direction. The smirk on his face reveals that he’s enjoying this far too much.

“You know, I _thought_ it was a rumor. But I must say that I’m quite surprised to find that it’s actually true,” Linhardt exclaims. “How riveting.”

Byleth’s cheeks burn; she’s absolutely mortified. He saw them… he _knows,_ and there’s undoubtedly no way to convince him otherwise. Perhaps it was selfish of her to cling to the idea of her and Dimitri again in this life--if anything it was selfish and short-sighted of her to be _stupid_ enough to fall asleep in a public place. Byleth is thankful that Sothis isn’t here to chastise her. _How foolish have I become?_

“Please, you won’t tell anyone, will you?” she begs. _Truly pathetic._

Linhardt snorts. “Truth be told, I have no interest in gossiping. I also have nothing to gain from telling other people. I do, however, have something to gain by keeping it a secret… if you are willing to let me miss class to travel home at the end of this week.”

“That’s… that’s it?”

“Well, if I could also be excused from stable duty so I can work on my crest research… that would be preferable,” he adds flippantly.

Byleth rolls her eyes openly at the mage and manages a small chuckle. “You never were one for stable duty.”

“Hmm?”

“Yes, Linhardt. You are excused from class later this week... _and_ from stable duty, indefinitely,” she concedes. His terms are quite agreeable, she must admit. Moreover, she’s just thankful that someone as unperturbed as Linhardt was the one to find them at the library this morning.

“Oh, by the way, Professor,” Linhardt adds as she makes her leave. “You snore.”

  
  
  


* * *

Hubert enjoys a good dose of irony. Though he does admit he is a rather sore sport about it when _he's_ the target of such cruel satire.

Poking at Fraldarius and his friends was entertaining... until, of course, getting thrown aside like a ragdoll by the Death Knight. Hubert doesn't believe in the goddess or fate. He simply believes that him ending up in the infirmary with injuries far worse than he made fun of Felix for having is a rather... _unfortunate_ coincidence.

Hubert hisses as he shifts uncomfortably on the cot. Healing magic only does so much--mostly knitting together flesh and sinew. But with a broken leg and several broken ribs, the healers were only able to set a few of his bones and help manage the bruising and swelling. It quickens the mending of the breaks, too, _but not fast enough,_ he thinks to himself as the sharp pain from his moving melts into an unending ache.

Of course, there's tea for the pain as his bones heal. It's bitter, and he's not sure it's entirely doing anything to lessen the constant throbbing. He'd much rather have the simple pleasure of a hot cup of coffee instead of the tea, if he is stuck here.

He knows he's pouting, laying here in the infirmary--resigned to the most uncomfortable cot with his aching leg that can’t even hold up his body weight and the grimace and wave of nausea that accompany every breath that irritates his bruised and broken ribs. He figures that most people won't be able to tell, though, due to his normally dour expression. He does his best to project a cheery demeanor despite the pain in the face of the healers, and especially Manuela when she does her rounds twice a day. A pleasant attitude would expedite his discharge from the infirmary and his return to Edelgard’s side--and that was his main goal.

But then again, there is pain worse than his injuries... and that is being bed-ridden in the infirmary with his present company.

Hubert actually has no real qualms about Flayn. He overhears a conversation between the girl and Seteth about her joining the Black Eagles the morning after the skirmish; The two argue back and forth for a while over a tray loaded up with delicious breakfast foods... none of which Hubert can palate right now, much to his chagrin as the smell of fried eggs wafts across the aisle to his cot. In fact, it might surprise some that Hubert is indifferent to the idea of a child of the goddess joining the Adrestian house.

Despite her _differences_ that she and her _brother_ keep so well hidden from all of Fódlan, he doesn't blame her for the state of the Church. She claims she lived in Enbarr for the years leading up to her joining Seteth at the monastery just this academy year... but Hubert had never seen her once in the Adrestian capital. Despite her mysterious absence during those years, she seems like a pleasant, well-intentioned girl--innocent of the evils that _Rhea_ perpetuates across the realm.

Her older brother, Seteth, though... Hubert can't quite place his feelings about the man. He seems devoted to his sister more than Rhea, yet he still upholds the Church's arrogance, for better or worse. While Hubert hasn't been able to deduce the advisor's _true_ allegiance, he hopes for both their sake that it lies with Flayn instead of the archbishop. Things would be... easier that way.

But until then, he listens as Seteth dotes on Flayn during each break in between classes that day until she’s discharged that evening. He writes off the inklings of jealousy in his gut as nausea from the pain.

Annette, on the other hand, is absolutely intolerable. The giggling and singing at all hours--chatting happily with Flayn as if they weren’t just kidnapped by dark mages who wished to drain them of their crested blood. _Ignorance is bliss._ Her singing bears no cadence or rhyme, and is so very childish. _Imagine having time to waste writing little ditties in a time like this,_ he glowers. Nothing could be more annoying... except for maybe her endless stream of visitors. _How many times could the Blue Lions come to visit her?_ None of the Black Eagles had stopped by yet to visit him, except for Edelgard and the Professor. _Heh,_ _but then again, what do I expect?_

He glances over as Mercedes pulls up a chair next to Annette now, extending a fabric bundle of her homemade confections. "I feel awful that you had to go through that, Annie, so I made you your favorite," she says, untying the bundle. "Peach currant cookies!"

"Oh, Mercie! Thank you so much!" Annette paws for one of the treats, gleefully taking a bite. "But you don't have to feel bad for me. I'm fine--didn't you hear? Manuela is having me discharged tomorrow."

Hubert looks over again at Mercedes. It's so _painfully_ obvious that she feels bad--there was a resolute knowing on her face that day, and it's on her face again now.

"That's... that's good news!" Mercedes says, folding her hands in her lap.

"But gosh, what's going to happen to Professor Jeritza's classes now? I mean, _everyone_ is saying that he is the Death Knight... could you imagine such a thing? One of our teachers?"

"I... can't imagine it, no," she replies softly. _A terrible liar._

Hubert looks away as she brushes a piece of blonde hair from her face. He doesn't feel bad for her. There's no way she _didn't_ know, and any doubts she had should have vanished the moment she set foot into Jeritza's room that day. Afterall, Mercedes von Martritz used to be Mercedes _von Bartels..._ and who in Fódlan _doesn't_ know what happened to the Bartels? _She_ obviously lived to tell the tale.

But as annoying as Annette and her constant stream of visitors are... she is nothing compared to the patient on the cot next to Hubert.

Monica von Ochs.

The first night in the infirmary, Hubert had his doubts that it was _really_ and truly the missing Monica. She rested mostly, not saying a word or opening an eye. But he didn’t need her to speak to know something is not quite right. She lacks the marks and needle pricks on her arms like the other two girls have. And knowing who kidnapped Flayn and Annette, they want blood from a crest… something that House Ochs has seldom born in the last few decades. 

Monica and her siblings were part of another generation of Ochs unfortunate to not inherit the Crest of Macuil that once carried their house to prominence within the Empire. If Monica was crestless--what need did _they_ have of her? And if she went missing a year ago… there is no way _Monica_ survived them.

The following morning, his suspicions are confirmed when Lord Arundel drops by before breakfast and Manuela's morning rounds as the morning sun just begins to color the skies.

The girl is not Monica. She is called _Kronya,_ to be exact... the body thief of the baron's lost daughter. Arundel instructs her that she is to masquerade as Monica and keep tabs on things around the monastery. More specifically, Edelgard for halting _their_ plans with Flayn and Annette.

Arundel--or his body thief, rather--must think Hubert is asleep or drugged with how openly they discuss their _business..._ or perhaps he knows that he is listening in on them with his eyes twisted shut, but just believes him to be so insignificant that it doesn't matter if he hears. Regardless, Hubert thinks it's equally as cruel of a coincidence that he's stuck on the cot next to the witch.

When Edelgard visits later that morning, Arundel accompanies her. He’s back to pretending again, now that Seteth is there and the healers are milling about the infirmary. Seteth explains that Monica, who is now sitting up in her cot and enjoying a plate of fried eggs and sausages for breakfast, will rejoin the Black Eagle House to complete her studies at the Academy--much to Hubert’s chagrin. His brow furrows at the thought of them infiltrating their school life, his and Edelgard’s one respite from them. His stomach grumbles at the smell of her tray of food.

From the way Edelgard laughs with Monica, Hubert can tell she doesn’t realize that it’s _not her._ After everything that has happened to her, reconnecting with an old childhood friend is like a salve on her wounds, he knows. And after everything, she Edelgard deserves happiness and people she can trust. Someone more than him, he knows.

But Hubert wants nothing more in this moment than to pull her aside and tell her that it’s all a charade--that Monica’s one of _them,_ even if it means stealing back the rare moment of genuine laughter and relief that escaped her lips. But with that _witch_ right there, and him confined to this cursed cot… he can only listen in as Monica feeds Edelgard some bullshit lines about how happy she is to be back at the Academy.

It causes Hubert physical distress when Edelgard stands to take her leave for the day--his only visitor leaving, having spent more time with the body thief than him. He feels his grasp on the situation, on his duty to the princess, slipping out of his grasp like sand through fingers. Acutely aware of his inadequacy, he lies on the cot and watches her silvery white hair walk out of the infirmary.

If Hubert believed in the goddess, perhaps he would pray. But he doesn’t. All he does is hope that Edelgard can remember how the _real_ Monica used to be. If only to spare her the pain of realization after the fact.  
  
  
  


* * *

Felix watches impatiently as Byleth pulls on her boots and adjusts the Sword of the Creator on her hip. First, she goes missing for days after everything that happened underground with the Death Knight and the Flame Emperor. Then, when he _finally_ finds her, she’s in the library at dawn with Linhardt and the boar. _Of all people._ What else was she doing all that time that could have possibly been more important than regrouping after the latest mission?

He knows she paid a visit to the infirmary--Annette told him as much. She also told him that Byleth met with Edelgard and her uncle regarding Monica. Felix remembers from Byleth’s recount of events that Monica turns out to be Kronos or Kronya or _whatever…_ and that she murders Sir Jeralt in cold blood.

If Byleth hadn’t invited Seteth to join the group--and maybe if his arm was well enough to handle a blade better--one of them could’ve ended Monica in that back annex. But instead, they were shocked to find Annette kidnapped along with Flayn… and even more so when Edelgard called off all those dastard mages. Ferdinand was actually the most surprised; Felix has kept careful tabs on him during Byleth’s absence to make sure he didn’t run his mouth… but he ended up spending most of that time locked in his room, anyway.

Regardless, Felix needs to talk to Byleth about these things. For half a week, he waits and searches the monastery for her. Her swordsmanship seminar is cancelled and she doesn’t show at the training grounds at all--cause for concern for any of her students, not just Felix, right? And when he finally finds her and tells her everything, she brushes it off like it is nothing.

“It was only four days--you’re acting like it was a month,” she tells Felix. _Fair,_ he thinks to himself, _but during those four days, Ferdinand realized the Flame Emperor’s true identity, and Lysithea basically stole the crest stone from my room._ Both of those things are _his_ fault, ultimately. He panicked for the last four days over his mistakes and missteps… not that he’d ever admit to sleepless nights and wandering the monastery looking for her to hopefully fix this mess before it backfires.

"Are you going to pulse back?" Felix asks her after he’s finished explaining the dire state of everything.

"No, not yet,” Byleth replies after a moment. “We can leverage Ferdinand and Lysithea, I think. And don’t blame yourself--this may play out to our favor. No need to worry yet.”

Felix clenches his fist. “No need to worry? Ferdinand is now basically a shut-in like Bernadetta… and you don’t see anything _worrying_ about that?”

“As long as he keeps quiet, he will be a powerful ally in the Empire for us.”

“And who’s job is it to make sure he keeps quiet? Mine? He won’t even talk to me about it, and I was the one there with him,” Felix shoots back, squaring his shoulders defiantly.

Byleth sighs and looks at him a long moment from the edge of her bed. She stands and brushes off her knees out of habit, then walks over to him. “We already discussed this, Felix. This morning? What is wrong with just giving him some time? He was--”

“An ally of yours in the past? Tch. The past is the past, Byleth. In case you haven’t noticed, things are different now.”

“Not all things,” she murmurs, pushing her door open to the inky night. Byleth surveys the dormitory courtyard for any monks on their nightly rounds, and after determining it is safe for them to pass without wandering eyes, she nods for him to follow her down the steps and around the corner.

 _She’s always on to the next thing,_ he glowers. Felix unfolds his arms with a huff and accompanies her to the hidden door to the underground tunnels she’s told him about. Though, he isn’t about to drop the conversation there. He isn’t about to let Byleth get so carefree about this.

"And Lysithea?"

Byleth pushes the stone wall and a door swings open revealing stairs that lead down into pitch darkness. "She'll help us look into the crest stone, yes? If that's all she knows of, I think we are safe."

 _You think? If you had just brought the crest stone to Linhardt like I had said, none of this would have happened,_ he thinks bitterly.

"And what if we're not? What if she says something or Ferdinand blabs everything to Dorothea… We'll end up bringing war to our doorsteps early if someone slips up--"

"Who's slipping up?"

Claude walks up behind Felix and throws an arm around his shoulders. Felix makes a disgusted noise and shrugs rather aggressively out of his hold. Then Linhardt joins, not far behind Claude. Felix doesn’t even bother restraining himself from rolling his eyes. _The goddess surely hates me._

"What are ya up to, Teach? Bringing a new friend down to our underground treasure trove?" Claude asks, wiggling his eyebrows at them. Felix feels himself want to gag. _For Seiros’ sake, is everything a game to this guy?_

"Yes... just to explore. But it's alright, you don't need to come along,” Byleth tells them, smiling like her and Felix hadn’t just been arguing… and like they aren’t about to go down and look for a body.

"Nonsense, we were going to head down there anyway! Lin here has been jumping at the bit to find some more books on the Red Canyon. His last one had words burned off the parchment,” Claude explains.

Felix’s temper and irritation finally snaps, and Claude is the one in the crossfires. The swordsman pivots away from him and Linhardt to stand beside Byleth. “Listen, this doesn’t involve you, von Reigan. We don’t need your help, so fuck off,” he fumes.

A small hand rests on his right shoulder--Byleth. He shrugs it off rudely, but stands down. A blanket of silence falls over the group for a moment before she finally speaks.

“If it’s alright, Felix and I will explore. If you two can just… keep to the library. To not draw as much attention to ourselves in case there are others down there.” Felix knows what she’s referring to when she says “others”… _the man with the dagger._ Not to mention all of the stories of the mysterious people coming and going from under the monastery. That’s the only thing the girls gossip about nowadays… and it’s the reason why there are Knights joining the monks out on nightly rounds, especially in light of the kidnappings.

Claude gives a short nod.

"Well, Hilda's already keeping watch--shall we be on our way, then?" Linhardt yawns.

Felix and Byleth share a look. _Are you sure it’s really OK for us to look for this body with them down there? You’re really going to trust them to stay put?_ Byleth glances back with something that reads like, _‘You’re right, maybe not tonight.’_

He gives her a smug smile and a tilt of his head. _At least she acts reasonable about this._ Felix shoves the thoughts of all of her unreasonable actions--like not pulsing back like he asked her _twice_ today--out of his mind for the current moment, as he carefully watches his steps as he descends the steep stairs with the three others leading the way.   
  
  
  


* * *

Hubert hears the slightest knock at his door--at this hour, he normally would ignore it. Especially since it's his first day back in his own bed. His ribs are still tender along with his leg, but he is able to hobble around on it now. With the facade of a positive attitude and his best attempt at a smile through the persistent ache and occasional tremor of weakness… his winning performance was sufficient to convince Manuela that he was well enough to resume attending classes.

Hubert knows it was premature of him to weasel his way out of the infirmary. But he was well and truly going mad in that place. One would think that with Flayn and Annette discharged within the first two days after the skirmish underground, he would have found peace. But it was the fact that Monica was discharged along with them to walk freely among his peers--especially Edelgard--that prompted him to leave with a fragile, partially mended leg while still being unable to take a deep breath without pain wrapping around his chest.

The thought of one of _them_ pretending to be Monica while Edelgard seems relatively unperturbed keeps him up at night. And the thought of leaving the princess unattended after the surprise visit of Arundel’s ilk makes him uneasy. And because of Jeritza’s carelessness, he can't watch over her in his stead. Not that Hubert particularly trusts him to do so after he acted under Arundel’s order without alerting Edelgard...

His physical pain is enough of a reminder of _that_ matter.

Hubert would have sought out Edelgard immediately after discharge, but the walk from the infirmary to his quarters is exhausting enough for him to lay down and fall immediately asleep, completely depleted. But later that evening, when he hears the knock play out in a particular rhythm--he painstakingly pulls himself out of bed.

He and Edelgard use a specific pattern of knocks to alert each other that it’s indeed them in the middle of the night--not some assassin, one of her uncle’s dark mages, or worse yet… someone pestilent like Ferdinand. It’s the same secret knock that they’ve used since they were children--back before everything. While he is not one for entertaining nostalgia, each time he hears the knock, it brings Hubert back to those simpler times with a fondness that blooms in his chest. This time, though, all he feels is the sore ache of his mending ribs.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers when he opens the door, “I know you need the rest, Hubert… but come look.” Edelgard tugs his arm over to the window outside his door. She points over toward the training grounds, and he winces as he leans forward to peer through the darkness, his ribs prickling and burning at the sudden movement.

While it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, Hubert picks up on movement out by the training ground gates. The people moving about are dressed in all black and have their faces covered as well.

“Well, they aren’t working for the Church,” he whispers back, turning to face her. “Has your uncle made any plans that I’m forgetting about?”

Edelgard’s pale eyes lower as she shakes her head at him. “No. But it’s not like we knew anything about Flayn, Annette, and Monica.”

Hubert pulls away from the window.

“Where is Monica, anyway?”

“Asleep?” Edelgard blinks at him with confusion. “There’s no available rooms, so she’s sharing one with Dorothea. She was going to room with Bernadetta, but--”

“No time to talk,” Hubert cuts her off gently. Another glance out the window, and he sees there are still people moving about in the darkness across the courtyard. He ducks back into his room and grabs his boots and pulls them on--hastily on his good leg, and gingerly on his bad. Edelgard is still dressed in her Academy uniform, a scabbard on her belt--not that he’s surprised, as she is often up late writing letters or taking walks around the monastery. Hubert is in his night clothes, so he tugs on his jacket before pulling his door shut as quietly as possible.

He fastens the buttons on the jacket as he and Edelgard quietly move down the stairwell. They turn the corner and slink alongside the dorms on the first floor, and Hubert holds his breath as they pass Dorothea’s room, knowing who’s beyond that door.

Curling a hand around Edelgard’s forearm, he delicately pulls her along at a quicker pace as he sees the dark figures on the move in the distance. As they near the end of the dormitories, Hubert sees one of them standing, leaning up against the brick of the building. Knowing that magic would draw too much attention to them, he fishes out the dagger that he always keeps on him.

Edelgard stays a few steps behind as Hubert closes the gap between him and the figure, poised to grab their arm and press the tip of the blade threateningly against the flesh of their neck. That is, until he draws near enough to discern some of their features in the darkness. He hesitates, softening his movement and lowering his dagger. No, this isn’t one of them… it’s…

“Hilda?” he hisses as he draws near to her. Edelgard must realize, too, as she swiftly joins them.

“Hubert!” Even in a whisper, the girl somehow manages to whine in that ridiculous put-on voice. “And Edelgard? You two scared me! I thought you were one of the Knights or something,” she wrings her hands for dramatic effect.

“Stand out here long enough, and one of the Knights will find you on their rounds,” Hubert murmurs. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”

“Uh, I am waiting for one of the Knights to _meet_ me here, if you really want to know,” she sasses back, flipping her pink hair over her shoulder.

Hubert sucks in a deep breath that does little to calm his irritation, as it makes his aching ribs flare with pain again. “You mistook me for your _date?”_ he scoffs, eyes flickering behind her at the dark figures just a few yards away from them.

“You wish, Hubert. Besides, what are you two doing out here?” Hilda snaps back under her breath, hands on her hips as she looks up at him. She must see him glancing off into the distance behind her, because she pivots to look behind her.

“Will you both stay quiet?” Edelgard scolds quietly under her breath. Only a few doors down from where they were standing, just beyond Professor Eisner’s quarters at the end of the building, were the group of dark figures. Edelgard gets a closer look at them before he has a chance too, because she’s grabbing a fistful of his jacket sleeve. Hubert is quick to realize that she’s urging him to get away from Hilda so they can get after them--what he then sees are the dark mages in the employ of Lord Arundel.

Hubert gives her a quick nod as they exchange looks, but it is too late to run away from the horrible pink inconvenience before them.

“Woah! There should not be people creeping around over th--”

Edelgard shushes Hilda, grabbing her hand tightly and squeezing hard enough to make her yelp a little bit. Thankfully, not loud enough for the dark mages to hear. Hubert creeps ahead of them and ducks beneath a pile of barrels and crates at the end of the dormitory. He struggles to not groan at the stabbing pain in his leg when he crouches down, peering in between boxes at the group of mages. There’s four of them, he counts; they’re congregating in the small nook between the dormitory and the towering stone foundation of the sauna.

Hubert hears a scraping of stone, and squints closer to see them pushing on the limestone wall to reveal an opening. The mages disappear one at a time through the passageway and into even blacker darkness, and the stone door swings shut. He nearly falls forward into the pile of crates out of surprise. It’s not that he’s surprised that the monastery has secret passageways--he is already aware of various underground areas, crypts, and dungeons that are off-limits to students.

He’s surprised that he has yet to learn of this passageway, and one this accessible at that. He’s also angry. _What business do they have here? And why wasn’t Lady Edelgard informed of this?_ He was going to find out--bad leg and healing ribs be damned.

Rising to his feet again once he confirmed the mages had left, he staggers for a moment as he finds his balance. Edelgard moves in quickly to aid him, but he brushes her off. His pride cannot allow that--it is he who should be aiding her, never the other way around.

“Who were they? Did they just… disappear?” Hilda asks, reminding Hubert of the other pressing issue at hand, aside from Arundel’s dark mages lurking around the monastery. He clenches his teeth behind closed lips and tries to think of ways around this nosy girl.

“They weren’t the Knight you were looking for,” he quips. “They’re likely dangerous.” _No, they are_ extremely _fucking dangerous._ “And you could see where they went.” _Which is a problem for both of us._

Hilda is surprisingly silent for a beat before asking another question. “So… you two aren’t going to follow them, right?”

Hubert immediately picks up on the hesitancy in her voice. But before he could ask his own prying questions, Edelgard chimes in.

“I don’t think it’s safe for us to do so,” she says, shaking her head. “Hubert, perhaps we should wake the Professor? She could help us.”

He turns to his right and glances at the Professor’s door and sighs. Edelgard wants so badly for their Professor to be their ally, but Hubert has his reservations. Sure, he indulges her invites for coffee and will share a meal with her and the princess… but all of it is solely to gather information. He suspects the Professor knows more than she lets on, based on his observation and interactions with her.

Less than a week ago, she seemed to know _exactly_ where to go to find Flayn and Annette--more specifically, exactly where to send Felix and Mercedes, who were the first ones there. Something struck him as peculiar with how she reacted to being summoned by the Archbishop out of class that day. And after the events of that day played out, Hubert is half-convinced that the Professor knew about the kidnapping before it happened. He and Edelgard did not even know of her uncle’s plot to kidnap Flayn and Annette. And _that_ alone is enough for Hubert to think it risky to involve her again with them now.

He sighs. “Are you sure you want to wake her at his hour?” he asks. But with Hilda standing right there, he can’t say want he _really_ means. _Are you sure you trust the Professor with this?_

“We must,” Edelgard affirms. Hubert pauses for a beat with disappointment that he doesn’t let show on his face or cross his tongue. He turns to knock on the Professor’s door, but Hilda interjects--literally grabbing his arm.

Hubert hisses in pain when he tries to pull back; the burning ache wraps around his ribcage.

“We really really shouldn’t wake the Professor, guys,” Hilda insists.

“I already knocked on the door,” Hubert says through gritted teeth. She relinquishes her hold on his arm, and he knocks again. Hilda stamps her foot on the ground and her eyebrows raise as she gives him an alarmed look.

“Well… ugh, just don’t do it again!”

Edelgard sighs. “Hilda, excuse me,” she says as she pushes past both her and Hubert to get to the Professor’s door. She raps her knuckles against the door a third time. After another lengthy silence and more whining from Hilda, Edelgard knocks once more. “Professor? Professor, please answer. Professor?”

Unwilling to let any more time pass for the dark mages to move further away from their reach, Hubert excuses himself as he reaches an arm in front of Edelgard to grab the handle of the door. He swings the door open. A candle is lit, softly illuminating the room. He sees a stack of essays and assignments on her desk, her bed sheets strewn… But, most curious to Hubert, is the Professor’s absence.

“She was here… recently, I am sure. Do you have an idea of where she might have gone off too, Hilda?” he pointedly asks her. She sets her jaw and her brow twitches downward. Tucking her hands into the pockets of her skirt, Hilda stares up at him with fiery resolve.

“Like I’d know where she is, Hubert,” she retorts with a particular venom on his name.

He tugs the Professor’s door shut and takes a threatening step closer to her, towering over the girl. _Now’s not the time to be difficult._ “I find that hard to believe--considering you’ve been waiting out here all night, you would have seen the Professor leave her quarters. But judging by your adamant reluctance of us seeking her aid, not only did you _see_ her leave, but you are under the pretense--oh, forgive me… perhaps _instruction_ is a better word--to not tell a soul of her whereabouts.”

Hilda remains silent--not even a change in expression. Hubert isn’t quite dissuaded from his reasoning. While she may believe she’s a good actress and a true confidant, he has dealt with far too many interrogations and cloak-and-dagger undertakings for the Empire and Edelgard to take things as they seem.

“You know all about the rumors about bandits running around underneath the monastery… right?” he changes the topic after a beat of her silence. He chuckles softly and taps his chin and continues, “Silly me, I shouldn’t have to ask--after all, _you_ are the one who told both Lady Edelgard and I about it. Well, I have reason to believe that those ‘super shady’ people, as you call them, were just out in the courtyard here. They are extremely dangerous, Hilda. And without the Professor to help us, we should alert the Knights or Seteth.”

Her pink eyes widen and she averts her gaze for the first time. Hubert smirks. “Perhaps we can ask that Knight you were waiting for h--”

“No, we can’t do that. The Knights can’t know,” Hilda blurts out, grimacing. He straightens in place--half smug at his seemingly correct conclusion, and half simmering at the girl’s obsitence further delaying his pursuit of the dark mages. He opens his mouth to continue, but Edelgard interjects.

“Can’t know _what,_ Hilda? Is it true what Hubert suggested? We must know if the Professor went underground,” she presses.

“Were those people…?” Hilda murmurs, trailing off. Then, she looks up suddenly and fiercely at Edelgard. “Yes, she’s underground--through a passageway over there,” she says, pointing to the spot under the sauna staircase. “If she’s in danger--”

“For fuck’s sake--of _course_ she’s in danger!” Hubert hisses at her, his frustration reaching its peak. “Those people have been down that same passageway for _minutes_ now! If you hadn’t kept us here this long and just told us--”

“Well, I _told_ you!” she fires back, scowling. “We have to go after them.”

“You’re not armed,” Edelgard observes.

Hilda makes an exasperated sigh, literally throwing her arms in the air. “Well, don’t let me slow you guys down any more than I already have.” She shoves past Hubert and opens the Professor’s door; marching inside, she rifles through a handful of weapons propped up in the western corner, finally settling on an axe. “I mean no offense to you, Edelgard,” she adds, “but I didn’t tell you guys because there’s just _no way_ I trust Hubert.”

Hubert chuckles to himself as he follows after Hilda who leads them through the hidden door and down the dark stairwell.

_Good. You shouldn’t._

Their descent is quick and painless. Upon reaching the foot of the enormous stone staircase, they all decide to go left down a narrow corridor. The stone beneath their feet is wet and littered with rubble and trash--broken pieces of armor and furniture. Further down the passage, they begin to see blankets and linens; though dirty, they were arranged like makeshift beds.

“Oh wow! I thought it was just a silly legend!” Hilda exclaims. Hubert rolls his eyes. “My brother used to tell me stories about how people lived beneath the monastery… this is all so crazy.”

"I never thought I'd say this, but I believe you, Hilda. In fact, it reminds me of similar tales I've heard of secret passages snaking beneath Garreg Mach. This is undoubtedly one of them,” Edelgard comments.

Hubert is repulsed at the thought of the Church allowing people to live in these conditions, right underneath them. "To think people live down here…” he trails off. “Heh, must be monsters or criminals."

"Aw, Hubert! That's not very nice!" Hilda whines.

He shushes her, spying the faint glow and flicker of candlelight down the corridor. He pushes his way around the two women to be ahead of them; Edelgard protests, whispering at him and tugging on his jacket sleeve, but he firmly assures her. His broken body be damned--he can walk and can still perform magic. It’s his duty to protect the princess.

His steps slow as he realizes the candlelight is coming from a room. Waving both Hilda and Edelgard to fall back into the shadows close to the wall, he cautiously peers around the corner of the archway into the room. First, he sees shelves of books that seem to go up two, maybe even three stories. Second, he sees familiar teal hair.

Then, he sees the rest of them.

Hubert steps forward into the library, the two women following not far behind him. “Good evening, Professor,” he announces. All of their heads turn to face him. “We couldn't help but notice... well, all of this," he says, motioning to his surroundings.

The Professor looks truly dumbstruck--an expression he’d never expect to see on her. Claude gives Hilda a look of contempt, Felix’s hand dances to his blade, and Linhardt just stares back, mouth agape. _I can’t believe I expected better of you, Linhardt,_ he thinks. _You’re out and about fraternizing with them, down in this goddess-forsaken place. How humiliating._

“What brings the lot of you down here? I didn’t realize the archbishop was sending students on missions underground,” Hubert asks, leveling his gaze with the Professor.

"Ugh, it's not a mission,” Linhardt groans. “I just wanted to borrow a book--can't I do that in peace?"

Hubert snorts. "I've never seen everyone carry a sword just for a simple trip to the library, but then again I didn't know Fraldarius could read."

Felix’s eyes flash something dangerous at him, and he grins back at him. _This is too much fun._ Before he can see the reaction from him, Edelgard steps forward with an arm outstretched in front of Hubert, as if to separate the two of them. He huffs and frowns.

"Don't mind him, Felix,” she says to him before turning her attention to the Professor. “My teacher, what are you doing down here? Certainly you have heard the reports of mysterious people coming and going from under the monastery… We’re here because we saw a group of them come down here through a hidden door, thinking you might be in danger."

"Hmph, just like the ones we ran into a few days ago,” Felix grumbles, folding his arms.

"Hey, you have a point there,” Linhardt muses. “I wonder if these mysterious people that you followed down are in league with the Flame Emperor, too..."

Hubert feigns a look of surprise at the speculation, then realizes that the Professor is staring right at him. A wave of uneasy silence falls over them; both groups unwilling to disclose their true motives to each other. _I’ll figure out the secrets you keep soon enough, Professor._

"You and your friends are back, I see."

  
  
  


* * *

Byleth feels her body recoil at the sound of that voice again. Her hand curls around the grip of the Sword of the Creator; she extends it while she spins, the fragments of the blade striking the stone floor with a ferocity that shakes the place. It whips toward the lavender haired man, but he is quick to disappear from her peripheral.

Her eyes dart around the room looking for him as the Sword conjoins again. Felix and Claude have their weapons drawn now--Edelgard, too. Magic glows violet in Hubert’s hand, and Linhardt is frozen in place clutching his tomes to his chest. Hilda, on the other hand, steps out before everyone with the butt of her axe resting on her shoulder.

“C’mon guys, we have to leave,” she says with a certainty that Byleth has never seen on her face before. When no one moves, she groans and swings the handle of her weapon to rest in her hand. “Let’s go,” she urges, giving Claude a nudge with the palm of her hand.

“Who was that, Professor?” Hubert sneers in Byleth’s direction. “Sounded like he knew you.”

“Well, we aren’t sticking around here to find out,” Hilda snaps at him. She grabs onto the fabric of his jacket with her free hand and tugs him toward the entrance to the library. “Especially when you are still broken.” Hubert grumbles in reply, but complies. Edelgard files out next, Linhardt hurriedly following her.

Byleth surveys the library once more, then glances over at Felix who looks just as alarmed and wild-eyed as her. His eyes say it all. He knows who that was--the man with the dagger. Though they are prepared for danger with their blades ready as they, too, follow the group out and back through the tunnels, Byleth can’t stop the adrenaline rushing through her body. She’s shaking, even. Hubert is right--that man knows her. But Byleth knows nothing of him except that he’s immune to her Divine Pulses. She knows she has the disadvantage, and it's an unsettling feeling.

“Welcome, curious students of the Officers Academy!” a masculine voice booms down the corridor. The group stutters to a halt right in front of the man. In the dim light from the glow of magic, Byleth sees that he towers over her students--even Hubert. Immediately, she pushes her way through her students to the front of the group. “What brings such fine, upstanding surface dwellers to our humble abode?”

“Our business here does not concern you,” Edelgard says firmly. She and Hilda are at the head of the group, their weapons drawn threateningly at the wild-looking man who looms over them. “Do you intend to let us pass?”

“Ahaha! Such indulgence simply cannot be permitted,” another voice chimes in, this time belonging to a slight blonde woman. She, like the man, wears grey tailored clothes with metallic details that jostle with each of their movements. “You are here by order of the Church...which cruelly plots to eliminate the inhabitants of Abyss!”

“We aren’t here by the order of anybody” Claude tries to reason with them. “This is all just a misunderstanding. So if you would both kindly let us pass--”

The tall, brutish man folds his arms across his chest and laughs openly. It’s then that Byleth notices the glint of his gauntlets in the low light--he’s armed. She feels the Sword warm and heavy in her palm as she prepares herself to use it to defend her students.

“Wait… Claude, is it?” he inquires. “As in the brand-new heir of House Riegan?”

“Who, me? Nah. Wrong guy,” the leader of the Golden Deer dead-pans back. “Claude’s a common name in Fódlan. It’s just too dashing for new moms to pass up. Hell, it’s even a popular choice for fake names.”

If Byleth could afford to take her eyes off the pair of underground denizens, she would shoot Claude an icy glare. _Now’s not the time for jokes._ Instead, she focuses on how the tall man’s face shifts into a more serious expression. “Right, except there’s only one Claude enrolled at the academy this year. Looks like that’s you,” he says, staring right at Claude as he unfolds his arms.

Claude stammers in his speechlessness, apparently unable to provide a witty comeback to the mysterious man. _Whoever these two are, they know far too much about us. No more time to wait,_ Byleth decides. She pushes Edelgard and Hilda behind her. Felix is quick to realize and adapt, quietly waving along the group to bolt off down another tunnel while Byleth holds off any attack from the two.

“Hmm, not sure this is the best way,” a new voice echoes down the corridor to their right. The voice sighs loudly, the temperature of the passageway dropping almost instantaneously. Byleth can’t help a shiver at the sudden chill. There’s not even a full beat of silence before the stone floor begins cracking underneath their feet.

“Shit!” Felix yelps as and pushes the others back around the corner into the main corridor. He pivots back, his sword swinging at a massive wyrm thrashing against his blade. 

“What was that?! It couldn’t have been a summoning spell…” Linhardt half-cries.

“It doesn't matter now, does it? So go!” Hubert says as he shoves the younger mage further down the passageway. Though he groans and clutches his side, likely still bruised and healing from his injuries--he readies himself behind Felix, casting a pungent Banshee Θ spell at the wyrm.

At the same time, the tall man lunges forward at Byleth with a grunt. For just how large the man is, he is deceptively fast; she narrowly avoids the spikes of his gauntlets. The blonde woman accompanying him giggles and casts an Ice spell that freezes Byleth’s left foot to the floor in a block of ice. The cold stings her flesh through the leather of her boots. She tries without success to pull her leg out of the ice, forcing herself to grapple the man as he takes another swing at her unmoving form. Falling to the knee of her free leg, Byleth ducks low and trips up the brute. He tumbles behind her, buying her just enough time to melt the ice with a haphazard Fire spell, enough for her to break her leg free from the ice.

She almost slips on the icy stone floor as she scrambles to her feet; extending the Sword ahead of her, she knocks the blonde off her feet before she can cast another spell. With a pivot, Byleth snaps her wrist as the Sword retracts, ensuring it hits the brute on the recoil before he can charge her again. She jogs over to Felix and Hubert who have weakened the wyrm enough for the three of them to run and catch up to the others.

Hubert staggers on his bad leg, nearly falling face first into the ground. Normally, she’d chastise him or any of her students for trying to partake in battle or even a sparring match when they were still recovering from an injury. But Byleth figures that if she were to ask him _what in Fódlan_ possessed him to wander down here in his state… he’d only fire the same question back at her. Not having time to waste on silly rhetorical questions as mysterious people and wyrms were just yards from them, she bends down to scoop him up on her left shoulder. He mutters his thanks and lets her practically drag him for a few moments until he could finally manage to limp ahead without leaning heavily on her.

The other students are now only a few steps ahead of them, as they all push down the corridor, further into the depths of the tunnels.

“Ah, looks like a bunch of lost kids stumbling around in the dark. Stay awhile, won’t you?”

_That voice._

The three mysterious people reappear from the shadows of various side passageways to corner the group, the brutish man with his gauntlets and the two women with magic glowing in their palms. Byleth gets a look at the one who somehow summoned the wyrm--she has wild red hair with even bigger red eyes that stare almost blankly back at her. Who are these people? Edelgard and Claude brandish their swords and Hilda her axe, their backs against Hubert and Linhardt who ready spells of their own. A growl leaves Felix’s lips at the situation they find themselves in.

The lavender-haired man steps out from the shadows of a side passageway, approaching the group. Byleth grips her blade tightly in her hand, her eyes watching him and him alone. “Shame indeed not to have a bit of fun with each other while we’ve got the chance, you know?” he smirks at the group.

He’s also the first to strike, pulling his rapier from its sheath and launching himself at Felix. Taking that cue, the students strike back--Edelgard using her blade to deflect a spell as Hilda barrels forward with a swing of her axe. The stink of Hubert’s dark magic fills the air.

Byleth rushes forward to join Felix in battling the lavender-haired man. Despite facing Garreg Mach’s one of most adept swordsmen and a Relic-wielding former mercenary, the man holds his own easily against them both. The rapier in his hand is flimsy in comparison to her and Felix’s weightier swords, especially in the close-quarters of the passageway. However, his knowledge of the tunnels and the waltzing grace in which he spins out of her blade’s trajectory only seems to bolsters his raw skill in spite of his blade.

If he were one of her students, Byleth would consider his ability remarkable--but as the tip of his blade grazes her forearm enough to draw blood, his ability only bolsters the ire prickling inside her. Sweat clinging to her brow, she considers how much of a threat he would be against a single opponent. She elects to fall back two steps to gain a better vantage point and to stagger hers and Felix’s attacks.

Byleth poises to strike just as the man is off-balance after parrying one of Felix’s blows. But with her blade at its apex, ready to strike, he vanishes. She stumbles forward, catching herself before she falls. Looking ahead, the man reappears. Did he warp out of her reach?

He flashes her a dangerous grin, and before Byleth can blink again, he appears beside her, knocking Felix to the ground with the flat of his boot to the swordsman’s chest. Felix’s blade clatters to the ground as he lay sputtering and trying to catch his breath.

The simmering inside of Byleth spills over into rage. With renewed vigor, she charges toward the man. While one fist curls around the fabric at his shoulder, time shatters around them like ultraviolet scintillating shards of glass. The skirmish around them halts, causing enough of a distraction for Byleth to solidly grab the man and slam him into the stone wall of the corridor. 

_Hard._

Pieces of stone crumble down and skitter across the floor at their feet.

He wheezes, flashing her a half-smile, half-grimace. She doesn’t let go of her hold on him as she knocks the rapier from his left hand with her blade. Teeth bared and the Sword of the Creator glowing white hot in her grip, she raises the Relic threateningly to the man’s neck.

“Don’t you _dare_ touch any of them,” she hisses. “Or I won't hesitate kill you and your men.”

“Hah, don’t worry. I’m not here to pick fights with your little students, Professor,” he tells her, still gasping for air and shaking the pieces of his lavender hair that are disheveled and falling in front of his eyes. “Though I am glad to see you again.”

“Who _are_ you?” Byleth demands with a shout. “How do you know who I am?”

The man smirks at her, the tiniest laugh escaping his lips. “You’re not a holy knight, and you don’t seem all that special... but you’re certainly mysterious. I didn’t believe it at first when I heard that the Ashen Demon became a professor at the Officers Academy. But you went and made a name for yourself wielding that Relic of yours,” his eyes flicker down to the blade against his throat. “Yeah, I’ve heard all about you, _Byleth._ But I never figured I’d see you down here again after the last time…”

 _He remembers?_ Byleth blinks, a pulse of trepidation running through her.

“And those mages?” she blurts. Certainly it was him that she saw down in the annex with those dark mages. Their blood was still warm on their robes when she found them and saw him flee.

“What about them? Trying to figure out if I’m friend or foe, aren’t you?”

“Can you blame me? You and your friends are after my students…” she shoves him into the wall again, the Sword pressing into the flesh of his neck again. “You tried to _kill_ me!”

“Well, can you blame _me?”_ the man coughs. His tone quickly turns serious. “The visitors we get underground are usually scum… in case you haven’t noticed. Just a misunderstanding, that’s all. Say, let’s talk with our blades down?”

“Why should I trust you?”

“For starters, I'm pretty sure your little princess and her henchman over there were tailing the same intruders that we were, so that means we have a common enemy,” his lavender eyes glint wittingly over toward Edelgard and Hubert, frozen mid-skirmish.

 _Except they were tailing their allies… right? Did they come down here to join them and trap us… or was she truthful? Was she really acting against them like she did at Flayn’s kidnapping?_ Byleth hesitates. Everything is so confusing and her head is swimming. Normally, using this divine power would at least give her time to think and consider everything before making her next move. However, the mysterious man under her sword was complicating things.

“I mean,” he adds, “you can just do _this thing_ again if I don’t comply, yeah?"

 _He knows._ Byleth gives him a blank look for a moment. _Yes, he does remember._

And for whatever reason, his ability to subvert the divine pulse in this way further complicates things. A pulse back may only bring her students to temporary safety from these four mysterious folk. She ought to kill the lavender-haired man right now. But the promise and possibility of peaceful resolution to the skirmish and potential allies and intel about the dark mages that scurry about under Garreg Mach in the employ of Edelgard…

She lets an even breath escape her lips as she kicks the rapier away from his easy reach, the metal blade scraping across the stone floor down the passageway. With a nod, she relaxes her grip on both the man’s shoulder and the Sword at his neck--just a little though, to demonstrate her cautious agreement. The ultraviolet shards of time floating around them knit back together, and the skirmish resumes.

Edelgard and Hilda are both toppled back a few feet by an ice spell; Hubert clutches at his side with one hand as he hurls a blast of dark magic at the pair of mysterious spellcasters. The wild-haired woman who summoned the wyrm warps out of the spell’s trajectory, and the blonde chortles as she swiftly dodges his attack.

“Hapi, Constance!” the man shouts. The two women stop; the blonde huffs and brushes off the grey fabric of her skirt. Hubert stoops down to help Hilda and Edelgard to their feet.

“Did he say… _Constance?”_ Edelgard murmurs, though loud enough for the blonde spellcaster to hear.

“Excuse me, have we met?”

Hubert laughs darkly under his breath, positioning himself protectively in front of Edelgard. “Of course we’ve met,” he remarks. “Heh, what irony to find you here, Constance von Nuvelle.”

Constance’s eyes light up with wonder. “It cannot be… _Hubert?_ I cannot believe I did not recognize you,” she gasps, rushing forward to help him straighten up. She ruffles a hand through his hair. “How could I forget this dark mop of yours? Goddess forbid! Oh, and do not think I failed to notice the magic you’ve learned since last we met!”

The tall brutish man is mid-swing at Linhardt, who has a shimmer of magic glowing at his fingertips as Claude drags him backward by the fabric of his collar.

“Linhardt! Certainly that is you!” Constance exclaims. She moves in his direction, wagging a finger at the grappler towering over the young mage. “Balthus, can you honestly stop?”

“C’mon man, back off,” the lavender-haired man orders, echoing Constance’s demands. Balthus voices his disagreement with a grumble, but obeys. He stands towering over Linhardt who refuses to let go of the spell ready in his hands just in case.

“Wait. _Balthus?!”_

Hilda pushes past Claude and Linhardt both to get a closer look in the dim light of the tunnel. “From House Albrecht? Baltie, is that _you?”_ she inquires, her pink eyes squinting up at him. “You look, uh...old.”

“Huh? Do we know each other, pal? Wait a minute…” the man hesitates. “That hair. Those eyes. That voice! _Hilda?!_ I don’t believe it! Holst’s little sis?!”

“You all know each other?” Felix gripes, the exasperation and irritation evident in his voice. He brushes himself off as he picks up his sword from the ground. Byleth is equally as stunned at the unfolding conversations before her. She releases the lavender-haired man from her grasp and lowers her Sword, but holds tightly to it just in case. He may not be armed, but it’s clear he can warp and likely use other magic. While he had upheld his suggestion of a peaceful discussion, Byleth was still on guard.

“Yeah, pal, looks like we do. And for what it’s worth, Yuri, I’d say it’s clear this lot has nothing to do with the church’s intentions,” Balthus says. “But that means those other creeps could always attack us at any moment.”

“Can’t imagine why someone would attack you guys,” Felix grumbles sarcastically.

“Well, imagine it. Not sure who those freaks are exactly, but someone’s targeting Abyss,” Balthus folds his arms. “Mercenaries keep sniffing around and causing trouble down here. They just won’t let up.”

The lavender-haired man they called Yuri steps forward; his hand is outstretched at his side in Byleth’s direction as if to remind her that he’s unarmed when her swordhand tenses at his movement. “It’s a real problem, and like Balthus said, we have no clue who’s pulling the strings,” Yuri explains. “There are many within the Church who would love to see this filthy underground city purged.”

 _A… city? Called Abyss?_ She knows of the library and the tunnels and that body... But imagining people living underneath Garreg Mach is enough to make Byleth’s chest tighten. _What else is the Church hiding away under the monastery? Just how far do the passages go down?_

“When you first showed up, we thought you were here to do just that. Apologies for the confusion,” Yuri apologizes curtly, facing Byleth. His eyes are uncharacteristically serious, and it unnerves her slightly.

“Alas! For some foul reason, surface dwellers have been after us as of late. Further oppressing those souls who can only find solace beneath the ground? I cannot abide it!” Constance laments, the back of her hand on her brow.

“So, Constance, pray tell _why_ you and your friends are here?” Hubert quirks an eyebrow.

“Though it pains me to admit, we, too, harbor valid reasons for not venturing into the light. That is why, by the grace of our esteemed patron, we have been granted sanctuary here in Abyss.”

“Esteemed patron?” Hubert repeats dryly. Before Constance can respond, Hilda lets out a whining sigh, earning an eye roll from both of them.

“Baltie, does that mean you’ve got a reason for being here too?” she asks incredulously.

“Afraid so, Hilda. I’m here because,” he hesitates for just the briefest moment, but Byleth catches his eyes flicker over to Claude. _He knew with certainty about Claude, but he didn’t remember Hilda,_ she muses to herself. “There are more bounties on my head than there is hair. I needed to lay low. Real low,” Balthus explains.

Yuri clears his throat after a beat. “Well, enough with the niceties. Let’s get these surface dwellers out of here.” He catches Byleth’s gaze with a foreboding intensity. “Reunion’s over--you all need to scurry back to your dorms and we have mercs to catch.”

“Nonsense! Intolerable nonsense! Whyever would we let slip this chance to acquire their aid?” Constance challenges, stamping her foot on the stone floor. “Hubert, Linhardt, explain to them!”

“We didn’t offer to help you,” Felix is quick to interject. He steps over to Linhardt and tugs him away from Constance. “And we aren’t about to get involved with your merc problem.”

Byleth steps forward, about to correct the swordsman--why in Fódlan would he reject an opportunity to fight and learn more about the dark mages?--but Balthus counters him instead. “Easy there, pal. Can’t say no before we’ve even asked for anything,” he folds his arms and looks down at Felix. “Talk is cheap, but listining’s free, yeah? Like we said, recently this place is being targeted by mercenaries. Myself excluded, a lot of the folks who live here can’t defend themselves.”

“I cannot help but wonder why you would trust us so readily. We are from the surface, after all,” Hubert snarks.

“Trust is a choice. We’re choosing to trust you,” Yuri states matter-of-factly. “For now.”

Felix snorts in response, much to Byleth’s chagrin. She shoots him a dirty look. For as much as they hate each other, both Felix and Hubert are certainly adept at making this difficult for her.

“It’s clear you’re not here by command of the Church. And you’re not just a bunch of noble twerps, either. You can hold your own. It’s in the way you fight. How you carry yourselves. Still…” Yuri vacillates, his hesitation obvious. “I’m reluctant to get you involved with this madness. It’s our problem, not yours.”

Hapi, who has been standing silently near the shadows’ edge with arms crossed this entire time, chimes in much to everyone’s surprise. “It’s too late now--we already told them everything. Let’s at least give them a chance to decide if they’ll help us or not.” Constance and Balthus voice their agreement, but Yuri worries his chin with his fist, his brow furrowed in thought.

Byleth hears footsteps approaching from one of the adjacent corridors, and she readies the Sword for a dark mage or whatever surprise was headed their way. Felix must’ve heard it, too, as he draws his blade as well.

“We’re all done here, Boss,” a voice calls from the passageway. A rather unassuming man dressed in worn leather armor that wouldn’t protect him from a training sword appears. Byleth and Felix lower their blades as they realise he’s there to speak to Yuri. “Oh, but more importantly, about your--” he stops himself, looking at Byleth and the students around them. “They’re at the entrance. They’ll be coming in from the east.”

“The east… Good. We’re well placed. Go ahead and draw them deeper into Abyss, just like we planned,” Yuri nods. The man turns and jogs back down the passageway.

“Why are they targeting Abyss?” Byleth asks, finally speaking up.

“I'd like to know that myself,” Yuri laughs. “But first things first. We've got to make it through this encounter. Launching small counterattacks on the surface won’t accomplish anything. It could also earn us more scorn from the Church if it gets messy...which it will. That’s why we have to lure the enemy underground before we take them out. And don’t worry, I know the perfect spot.”

“Admit it, pals. You’re knee-deep in this, just like us. There’s no turning back now, right?” Balthus offers.

“Of course not!” Hilda says. “If there’s any way we can help your cause, we won’t turn our backs on you.”

Edelgard steps forward, sheathing her sword. “I must agree with Hilda. If we can capture the enemy, we can perhaps learn the reason behind their relentless attacks,” she proposes, much to Hubert’s ire. He looks like he wants to protest, but she waves him off. Linhardt and Claude agree as well. Felix looks to Byleth, awaiting orders.

She gives Yuri a wordless nod.

“I hope you’re ready, Professor. We’re counting on you,” he replies. His lavender eyes glint, and he leads Byleth and the others through a maze of tunnels.

  
  
  


* * *

Edelgard declines tea with Dorothea, and even seeks out Caspar to cover her greenhouse duty for the afternoon. She forgoes lunch all together, instead opting to return to her quarters for a much needed nap. Last night’s events had been exhilarating and enlightening--but, it left her exhausted with little sleep and a lot to think about.

She was expecting to find the dark mages in the tunnels--not a town beneath the monastery. It’s cared for by one of the monastery’s monks… but for how long? They said it has been opposed by the Church at large for some time now, including the archbishop herself. _How they can call such atrocious living conditions a solace and service for those less fortunate… disgraceful._

A fourth house of students was also another surprise. Battling them and then so swiftly alongside them to quell a group of mercenaries accompanied by the Death Knight…

 _Why was he there last night?_ She tightens her hands around the stack of books in her arms as she walks across the courtyard that is bustling at the noon hour.

Her thoughts waft to the library, the statues and structures of times long past… It’s clear there are items of value likely hidden away in the maze that is Abyss. Though, why would her uncle hire mercenaries to thieve gold and treasures? And recruit the Death Knight for such a task, no less? And the dark mages that she and Hubert saw in the courtyard… they were likely sent to resume whatever wretched experiments they were conducting. With the sheer vastness of tunnels, there was little chance that they’d cross paths with them underground last night anyway.

 _I’ll have Hubert warp me to him tonight,_ she thinks to herself. As much as she tells herself not to ruminate on the Death Knight’s unexpected appearance last night, she can’t quite shake her worries about last night. It was difficult enough to lose Jeritza’s cover at the monastery due to Manuela’s unfortunate nosiness. The Knights have undoubtedly been dispatched to Hrym territory to seek his capture and investigate by now. Months ago before coming to the Academy, she instructed Jeritza that if things ever went south at the monastery, that he should flee to an old abandoned estate in the outskirts of the Imperial capital that once belonged to one of her father’s previous wives.

While Edelgard trusts that he has safely sought refuge in Enbarr, she no longer has the convenience of checking in on his interactions with her uncle--or checking in his precarious mental state--at her leisure. _But even when he was here, he never told me about the experiments…_ Edelgard worries her brow with the back of her hand. _What else has he not told me about?_ She thinks about Mercedes, and how her uncle is likely holding her over Jeritza’s head to get him to comply--just like he held her over her mother’s head several years ago. The thought alone makes her sick to her stomach.

Either way, last night revealed to her that information and dealings are being purposely withheld from her, slowly slipping out of her locus of control. She itches to speak with Jeritza… and to get back to Abyss and find those mages with Hubert.

Though, the challenge will be to find time to steal away without alerting the Professor or the other students who are aware of Abyss and the hidden door… Not to mention, avoiding an entire town of watchful and wary underground residents--and their guardians and protectors, the Ashen Wolves, as they call themselves.

An Alliance outlaw may be bothersome, and an old childhood friend who doesn’t even remember her may be painful, but they aren’t _nearly_ as much trouble as that former Kingdom noble’s son who, as much as she can glean, is the leader of a troupe of vagabonds and rogues. The sway he has over the people of Abyss and the other Ashen Wolves could be problematic for her and her cause.

But the fourth one… _the wild-haired girl…_ Edelgard shivers at the thought of her. There’s only one way to know dark magic--and that’s from _them._ And that girl has the capacity to summon beasts with her magic… something she has never seen done before. She truly frightens Edelgard.

  
  
  


_Lena’s_ _screams have been going on for days now. It must have been days, anyway. It had been so long since she had seen the sun--there was no telling how long had passed or if it was day or night._

_Her cell is right next to Edelgard’s, so it makes it impossible to sleep. She huddles against the wall; the stone feels nice on her fevered skin. After a while, her sister’s screaming just becomes a drone of background noise instead of a gut-wrenching reminder of what is happening to them down here. While she can’t sleep, per se, her eyes flutter shut for a moment of rest. If such a thing is even possible in a place like this._

_That is, until the screaming stops._

_Her eyes snap open, unnerved at the sudden and foreboding lack of noise. It was almost as if the silence echoed back at her, ringing in her ears. Edelgard crawls over to the grate of her cell and wraps her hands around the bars, peering down the passageway of the dungeon. She sees her other siblings across the way also looking out of their cells._

_Her eldest brother_ _Dieterich’s cell is directly across from Lena’s, and Edelgard watches his face carefully for a reaction as he can see what is going on inside her cell. She anticipates that she will see tears and grief. All of them are used to that by now, anyway. Both Greta and Steffan have died already--that must be what happened to Lena._

_Edelgard prayed to the goddess over her last several meals that Lena would die. She asked the goddess to take Lena so that she wouldn’t have to scream anymore, that she wouldn’t have to be in pain anymore. She asked Saint Seiros to bring Lena to join Greta and Steffan so that they could be together again, free from their locked cells and this horrible place._

_She prays for the same thing again now. But instead of seeing tears run down Dieterich’s face, she sees fear and alarm. He pushes himself back from the bars of his cell and begins screaming himself._

_Edelgard yells his name, but he just keeps screaming. There’s a rumbling from Lena’s cell, and it makes the stone wall separating their cells crack, bits of it crumbling from the ceiling, even. Panicked, she looks down the passageway and she sees a group of the masked people running towards them. They start unlocking her siblings’ cells in a frenzy,while three of them take post outside Lena’s cell. There’s growling now, echoing from inside her cell._

_One of the masked people drags Edelgard hurriedly out into the passageway of the dungeon. She stumbles and falls to her knees; before the masked person can lift her back on her feet, Edelgard twists around to look into Lena’s cell._

_Her sister is no longer in there--whatever is left of her is scaled and deformed, a creature with huge talons that tears at the bars of the cell until they begin to clatter to the ground along with rubble and broken pieces of stone._

_It is a monster._

_It breaks free from the cell with a deafening roar, despite the masked people trying to contain it. Edelgard can hardly pry her eyes away from the horrifying sight; she’s pulled back to her feet and she begins to run, ushered along by the masked person. Her heart is racing and fear is the only thing keeping her moving with how weak she is._

_There’s a blinding flash of light behind them, and the creature makes a pained howl that reverberates down the stone of the passageway. Its growling and movement cease. The monster makes a final strangled noise, almost like a whimper._

_Edelgard only hears her sister cry._

  
  
  


The memory hits her like a brick, and she feels faint. She manages to climb the last few steps to the second floor of the dormitory, but pauses to rest her shoulder on the wall and steady her breathing. Though it happened years ago, it feels sharp and real and _alive,_ provoking a visceral reaction from her each time her mind dares recall those times.

The footsteps of another student walking past her is enough to pull her back to reality for the moment. She gives them a weak smile as they pass her. The hair at the nape of her neck feels damp and uncomfortable. Feet still a little unsteady, Edelgard walks over to her door and pushes it open. She places her books down on her desk, and perhaps it was her exhaustion or the hazy aftermath from her recollection or both, but she doesn’t notice company in her room until she spins around to plod over to her bed.

The sight of her uncle, tall and imposing at the back of her room, is enough to startle her out of tiredness. Edelgard blinks at him, standing up straight and brushing off the front of her Academy uniform. She hadn’t expected him to visit the monastery again so shortly.

“Uncle! You're back so soon,” she says, trying to maintain an evenness to her voice despite her alarm. He departed two days ago to visit Baron Ochs after the return of his daughter. Much to Edegarld’s disgust, her uncle volunteered to deliver the news to the Baron himself, and Seteth approved it. Not that he would have known that Lord Arundel was the one who kidnapped her to begin with.

Students and faculty around the monastery, Seteth included, keep saying how _thankful_ they are that Monica appears to have no recollection of her capture, but Edelgard knows better. The poor girl has to remember--it may not seem that to anyone, even herself because her mind will bury the memories at first, almost like it’s too much to conceivably recognize all of them at once. Then, as time goes on, little by little the memories resurface in dreams and nightmares... in arresting images that trickle slowly into reality… in head splitting terrors that keep you awake at night, because if you fall asleep, there’s no longer a way to run from it.

Edelgard is patient and kind to Monica not only because they were friends and children, but because in a way, Monica is just like her. And one day, she will remember who did such terrible things to her. Edelgard can only pray that her old friend can forgive her for allying with her captor.

“I haven't even the chance to leave,” Lord Arundel replies shortly. There’s a knock at the door, and he clears his throat. “Please, join us,” he invites the visitor. Much to Edelgard’s surprise, it’s Monica’s bright red hair peeking in from the other side of the door. She smiles at both of them and enters the room, carefully shutting the door behind her.

“Monica,” she states incredulously. “Is there something you need? Don’t you have class right now?”

Lord Arundel swiftly interrupts in a commanding tone. “I am the one who summoned her.”

Before Edelgard can question her uncle’s intentions, the skin of his face tightens and begins to peel back grotesquely. The putrid stench of rot and sulfur accompany the popping of cartilage as his bones rearrange into a taller, broader frame. Bright crimson musculature and ligaments are exposed briefly to the air as his flesh blisters away to be replaced by a new husk that is so pale, it’s nearly white. The pigment vanishes from his hair and eyes as well, completing his true form.

It’s been years since her uncle has been _her uncle._ Lord Arundel is nothing more than a convenient and powerful disguise for Thales--one of the leaders of the league of dark mages that has sown much discord across Fódlan for decades.

Edelgard panics--not because she hasn’t seen his true nature before, but because he so carelessly revealed it in broad daylight. To another student, Monica, who is trying to move forward with her life after the cruelty that he subjected her to. Instinctively, she moves toward the girl to comfort her. “What are you…” she stutters, “You can't possibly--”

“Though you may be our greatest creation, you are still but a naive child,”

Edelgard’s brow furrows defiantly. She feels Monica pull nearer to her, curling her hand around the crook of her elbow, wisps of her hair tickling the back of her neck. “Heh, yeah Edel, sticking your nose into others’ business, and you thought we wouldn't notice,” Monica titters into her ear. Edelgard flinches sharply away from Monica.

“We?”

“Silence, Kronya,” Thales orders.

 _Kronya?_ Pulling away from Monica completely, Edelgard turns to face her as she too transmutes--her red hair shocked into a bright orange, her freckled cheeks flayed away to reveal skin as cold and ashen as Thales’.

Edelard takes a step back as genuine horror washes over her, prickling her skin cold like a thousand needles. “M-Monica…” she breathes. _That means…_ The edges of her periphery start to grow fuzzy as she stares, fixated on Monica--no, Kronya--before her. Everything looks like it’s tunnelling away from her, too far away to reach. Her chest feels tight. _Monica..._

“Did you really think that pathetic girl was still alive? Don't tell me…” Thales laughs. “That has always been your failing, Edelgard. The future leader of Fódlan has no time for your soft-hearted, weak-minded idealism. They also have no time for meddling.”

“Meddling?” she manages to ask, blinking and looking back at him. She wiggles her toes in her boots in an attempt to ground herself and regain her composure. Thales paces across her room, his arms folded across his black robes.

“To think I sent Kronya back to the Academy to ensure that you wouldn't interfere with our work again... Yet you interfered again, even after that von Vestra boy was tossed aside like the dross that he is. The audacity he had to order my soldiers around, how pathetic.”

“The Death Knight is _my_ subordinate,” Edelgard retorts.

“You entrusted him to me for our mission--”

Her nails dig into her palm as her hand curls into a fist by her side. “I did not approve of anything in Abyss. And had I known what your other mission was, I wou--”

 _“Would have what?”_ Thales booms, startling her. “Flame Emperor, do you forget where you derive your power from? Your insubordination will not be tolerated.”

 _Did I forget?_ Edelgard thinks darkly. _How could I possibly ever forget?_ She straightens up and lifts her chin.

“So, if Kronya is only there to spy on me… why bother with all this?”

“Because you didn't learn your lesson little Edel!” Kronya lilts sing-song voice. She playfully bumps her shoulder against Edelgard’s, the faint lingering of sulfuric odor moving along with her. “Adventuring with your little classmates underground… _how cute!_ Though I don't know why you bother trying to make friends with any of them… when it's time for the cleansing of Fódlan, there won't be any of them left.”

Edelgard’s chest tightens, and she reactively turns to face her. “It was wrong of me to follow _my own_ _soldiers_ into Abyss?”

“Are you really that dense?” Kronya sneers. “Who's soldiers are they _really?”_

“Silence, Kronya.” She shrinks away from Edelgard, finally giving her a chance to take a deep breath. Thales continues. “It matters not to you what business they have there. Trust that the Abyss is but one part of our dismantlement of the Church.”

Edelgard’s face twitches as she stops her lips from twisting into a grimace. _This is not the time or place for arguments,_ she tells herself. She lets her eyes fall shut and focuses on keeping her emotions in check. “The Church sees no value in Abyss and seeks to rid themselves of it. I fail to see how this furthers our mission,” she remarks plainly.

This earns a laugh from Thales. “Silly girl. Just focus on your duties as Flame Emperor. Leave the other matters to me.” He turns his back to her, looking ominously out her window over the monastery grounds. “And it's best for you and your father if you don't meddle with our plans underground again.”

Before she can rebuke, he warps away. Edelgard watches as Kronya disgustingly shifts back into her guise as Monica with a shudder; she smiles at her as she exits her room, swinging the door closed behind her. With shaky legs, she paces over to her bed and sits down, letting her head fall into her hands.

_Father...  
_   
  
  


* * *

He basks in the sun like a cat by the greenhouse and monastery gardens. Lindhardt's fishing pole is propped up on his bucket full of one, maybe two catches. Not that he minded--a good book in hand and the sound of the water ebbing gently against the pier is enough to make this a fruitful outing.

Caspar, on the other hand, is electric with excitement. He’s always asking for more bait or boasting about his latest catch. Linhardt smiles at his Airmid gobies and readily shares his most expensive bait. Caspar’s constant movement keeps jostling the blanket they’re lounging on, and while anyone else disturbing his afternoon reprieve would be annoying at best… Linhardt couldn’t find it in him to be bothered. It’s difficult to be mad at the way blue hair tickles his cheek when Caspar leans against his shoulder, or the way his lips are warmer than the afternoon sun in fleeting stolen moments between them.

Linhardt considers for a moment even Caspar’s enthusiasm is endearing--though it’s draining for him to watch. He'd always been competitive, ever since they were children visiting each other’s territories each summer time--and there's nothing like a monastery fishing tournament to fuel that fire in him. Competition really isn't Linhardt's thing--too exhausting, too many expectations. So he leisurely fishes, leaving the thrill of the tournament to Caspar and the others across the pond.

At one point, Caspar says something about running out of herring bait as his hand brushes against Linhardt’s, still glued to his book. Linhardt glances up to see him scamper off around the pond, likely headed to the marketplace. He can’t help his lips from quirking up into a smile at Caspar bragging to Raphael and Ashe over by the pier. With a sigh, Linhardt reclines on the blanket as a stray cloud floats overhead, the warm breeze fanning across his face.

It’s moments like these where Linhardt can enjoy a moment of repose--a moment away from kidnappings and bloodshed and running with vagabonds in an underground maze after the Death Knight. He yawns. These last few months have felt like a lifetime to Linhardt. His eyes flutter shut to the ebb of pond water against the brick, the melody of sparrows and crakes as they flutter about, the lull of students chattering across the pond fading away into peaceful droning background noise... 

"You know, if you actually tried and won this stupid tournament, Flayn might actually let you pester her about her crest."

Linhardt props himself up on one elbow, the book splayed open and lying on his chest tumbling to the ground. The way the afternoon sun reflects off of snowy hair nearly blinds him. _Certainly not Caspar..._ Shading his eyes with one hand, he looks up at Lysithea. Her arms are folded and she's looking impatiently down at him. _Of course she’s here to scold me… and interrupt my nap while she’s at it._

"You may be right. Hmm, a Teutates herring in exchange for indispensable research. Wonder what it would take for you to talk with me about your crests?” Lindhardt deadpans. “A Fódlandy?" He yelps when the toe of her boot meets his shoulder.

"Don’t speak of that out here in the open," she warns him, her voice a sibilant whisper.

"Oh, so you don't _deny_ th--"

"Stop! Ugh, I came here to bother _you_ about crests for once, so will you just cut it out?"

 _She’s here… to talk about crests?_ Linhardt sits up fully, folding his legs and resting his hands in his lap. He squints against the bright sun to study her expression which is as serious as ever. The girl has always taken things too seriously--especially her aversion to discussing crestology. Linhardt always thought it’s a shame she isn’t willing to cooperate with his or Hanneman’s research, considering the rumors about her having two crests.

In Hanneman’s class, he swears he saw her activate a crest of Gloucester once. Though Lorenz vehemently denied such a thing, as he claims to have seen her activate the crest of Charon during one of the Golden Deer’s missions. And as utterly stunted and pretentious as Lorenz is… he is honest. That gave some credence to the rumor then… but after months of prying comments, she’s basically just admitted it to him now.

House Ordelia has not borne a crest in centuries, so it is curious enough that Lysithea ended up with one, much less two. Such a thing cannot be possible--human physiology cannot allow it, as he understands it. Maddening yet intriguing. He’d asked her many times about it all--about the magic she practices in secret, about her frequent bouts of illness, and about her crests, of course. This fueled her resentment of him, Linhardt is sure. She can’t stand to even _look_ at him when they pass each other in the halls.

But it makes her sudden request to discuss crests all the more intriguing.

"What do you want to know?" he asks plainly.

She shuffles her feet, looking around to make sure no tournament participants are wandering over to their side of the pond. "This… what do you know about this crest?"

Lysithea procures a small round stone, just large enough fit squarely in her palm. There’s an ornate carving into the stone, flowing lines and scalloped patterns. He blinks dumbly at the item in her hand for a moment, opening and closing his mouth trying to form a sentence.

"Where did you find that?" he manages.

"Uh, none of your business,” she retorts. “Can't you just tell me if you know what crest--"

"Lysithea, that is a crest stone.”

She huffs with impatience, pulling back the stone to her chest. "I _know_ that already! Gosh, do you really think I'm that dense?"

"No, but I'll have you know that that is no _ordinary_ crest stone." Linhardt points at the stone hidden away in her palms. He beckons for her to give him another look at it. She obliges and reveals the stone once more. As he studies the carvings, parts of the stone glisten in the sunlight oddly.

"Well yeah, it's not even set into a Relic,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

"Yes, but that's obvious, right? And because of that, the crest pictured here isn't one of the Ten Elites. It doesn’t even belong to one of the Saints," he rambles for a moment before stopping himself. Linhardt looks meekly up at her. "Not that you needed me to tell you that either, I'm sure."

"You should give me more credit, Linhardt,” Lysithea responds dryly.

He hums in response, tilting his chin up to make eye contact with her. “Very well, then. I’ll ask you this: do you happen to know why this crest stone is _blue?”_

Linhardt has seen crest stones depicted in many books in his short life. Growing up in the Empire, he never saw a Relic in person--or a crest stone, by extension--as none of the noble families bear crests of the Elites. Of course, House Bartels being the lone exception, but their house and bloodline has collapsed--their Relic likely vanished along with it all. Since being here at the monastery, Linhardt has been able to witness Catherine wield her Relic up close and personal.

And just like in the books and bedtime stories told to the children of Fódlan, the crest stone set into Thunderbrand, just like all the Heroes’ Relics, is _red._ Not blue.

 _Unless you’re the Professor… curiously, the Sword of the Creator has no crest stone at all,_ he thinks to himself. He’s thought that since he first saw her wield the legendary weapon. _But it’s not one of the ten Heroes’ Relics, technically,_ he told himself over and over again. But every now and again, the thought creeps up on him like it does now.

Linhardt catches his thoughts wandering and refocuses on the Lysithea holding a blue crest stone in front of him. She gives him a blank look.

“H-how would I know anything about this… this _thing?”_ she stammers. The nervous edge to her voice doesn’t slip past Linhardt who gives her a knowing glance. “Ugh. Look, I know you've mentioned in class that you're interested in lost crests… so that's why I thought you'd be the best person to ask about this."

"Of course this stone is of interest to me… despite your ignorance of how it came to be in your possession,” he replies, his tone teasing. “I haven't seen this symbol anywhere in my research… or at least I don't remember it off-hand. Let me reference it against my notes…"

Linhardt extends a hand to grab the stone, but Lysithea clutches it close to her chest again. "Nuh-uh, this stays with me," she declares. Linhardt’s brow furrows.

“How am I supposed to help you, then? Just let me borrow it--”

"It's not mine! I can't just let you walk around with it!"

"Whose is it? Hannemans?" he asks, knowing full well she’ll never tell.

"No!” she practically yelps. She lowers her voice so as to not draw attention to them. “And please, don't involve him in this. Ugh.. Just… uh, sketch it or take a rubbing or _something."_

"A rubbing…"

Linhardt stands up quickly, nearly tripping from his feet getting tangled in the blanket. The rubbings from the Red Canyon. What if the symbol on the crest stone matches one of those rubbings? He bends down and rummages around in his bag for some charcoal and a scrap of paper.

"Are you even _listening_ to me?"

He looks up at Lysithea. "Yes, yes. Let me quickly sketch out the symbol, and I'll do some research and let you know what I find,” he tells her, though his mind is already three steps ahead as he makes a hasty rubbing of the crest stone in her hands.

  
  


* * *

"Professor? Professor?”

There’s an incessant rapping at Byleth’s door, and the voice at the door is unmistakable. She rises from her seat on her bed, throwing a glance over her shoulder at Felix who’s looking equal parts smug and sick to his stomach.

“Professor, I must speak with you urgently," the voice insists. Byleth opens her door to Ferdinand who wastes no time entering the room, arms folded across his chest. "Of course _you_ are here, too,” he says, referring to Felix who leans against Byleth’s desk. “You must be a part of these schemes. You both knew this entire time!"

Felix gives Byleth a piercing glare, and her expression softens as if to say, ‘you were right.’ Because he _was_ right--the normally composed Ferdinand is currently flailing his arms in her room.

The timing couldn’t be worse. Byleth and Felix already have their work cut out for them after the discovery of a entire fucking _town_ beneath the monastery and their agreement to aid them against their intruders which just so happen to be the Flame Emperor’s soldiers. Everything else has taken second priority to making sure that five other students don’t let slip about their involvement with the Abyssians--one of them being Hilda Goneril.

Just when Byleth thinks she has earned Seteth’s trust, she doesn’t want to lose it again if he were to find out about her trespassing underground with her students.

She takes a measured breath as she closes the door. "Ferdinand, please allow me to explain--"

"It is not my allowance,” he corrects, cutting her off. “I demand an explanation."

"What difference does it make, idiot? Will you just _listen?"_ Felix butts in, standing up straighter, almost the same height as him. He tilts his chin up at Ferdinand, eyes narrowing and hands on his hips.

"Stop, Felix. Are you not the one who so calmly turned a blind eye to Edelga--"

"You need to stop talking so damn loud!” he growls back. “The whole monastery will hear you."

"Perhaps I _want_ them to hear. Everyone deserves to know the truth about her. About the _Flame Emperor,"_ Ferdinand says the last words with a particular venom. It’s unsettling for Byleth to hear him like this. "And why you both have been working for her, too. The truth of it all.”

He lets his arms fall to hand limply by his side; he turns his focus away from Felix to face Byleth solely now. She realizes how gaunt Ferdinand’s face had become in the last few days--the brightness gone from his eyes, his summertime freckles fading away from the bridge of his nose and replaced with a sallowness. It’s a look she’s familiar with, having seen it far too many times on Dimitri between this life and the last. His voice is hollow when he next speaks. “How long, Professor? Were you with them from the beginning? When the bandits attacked Prince Dimitri and Claude? And Flayn and Annette... how could you possibly--"

Byleth closes the distance between them, reaching out her hand to gingerly touch his shoulder. To ground him, to calm him. "Ferdinand, stop--"

"Do not touch me," he recoils from her touch. She studies his expression, and it’s distraught, wounded… betrayed. Byleth curls her fingers back into her palm and lowers her arm. _It shouldn’t be this way,_ she thinks. _It was never this way before._

"Are you going to let the Professor explain what's going on, or are you going to keep running your mouth and patronizing us for something you don't even _understand?"_ Felix snaps at him.

"What is there not to understand here?"

With another breath, Byleth shatters time around her, pulsing back to Ferdinand knocking on her door. 

"Professor? Professor, I must speak with you urgently," he urges. She opens the door and lets him in. "Of course you are here--"

"Yes, Felix is here because he and I are working together,” she cuts him off this time, swinging her door shut behind her. She maintains a neutral, steady tone to maintain a sense of calm. “There's no scheme as you believe it. And yes, we knew for some time now, but trust me, Ferdinand, when I say that we are _not_ working with the Flame Emperor, but instead to stop him.

"Her," Felix corrects, clearing his throat. Byleth throws him a deadly glare.

"You... So you knew... but you let Edelgard get away that day in the courtyard," Ferdinand exclaims, pointing at Felix. "And _you…”_ he continues, turning to face Byleth, “how long did you know? How _much_ did you know, Professor? Your students were in _danger--"_

Her chest tightens. "I would _never_ stand by and let anything happen to them... or you, or _anyone_ here at the monastery," she affirms. _He has it so wrong._

"You didn’t answer my question. Why do you speak with her uncle, the Regent? I’m sure you knew that he was there that day in the courtyard, the day of the kidnapping. Or at least Felix must have reported that back to you,” Ferdinand shakes his head. “What are you all plotting?"

Byleth would respond to his questions, but when she opens her mouth to speak, her words wilt on her tongue. Instead, she freezes up at the sight of Ferdinand unravelling again in front of her. It feels like she’s standing too close to him and too far away all at once, and it’s making her dizzy. 

_How long did I know? I knew the whole time. I knew about Lonato and I let him die. I knew about Miklan and let him escape. I knew about Flayn and Jeritza and I let him kidnap her. Am I… just as much to blame?_

"We aren't plotting, dumbass,” Felix cuts in. “And the Professor has saved all of you from the Flame Emperor and her thugs and soldiers, hasn't she? Doesn't that look like someone who is on your side?"

Ferdinand looks past Felix, his eyes meeting Byleth’s with a palpable intensity. They are clear and honest. And deeply hurt. 

"If Edelgard is acting afoul, then why have you not gone to the Church about it? You teach us all about the importance of justice. Why not now? She must be punished for her crimes--Imperial princess or not."

  
  


_“He would be executed if we were in the Empire. He should pay for his crimes with his life.”_

_“You better keep her close enough to kill her if you have to. Which you will.”_

  
  


"We cannot!" Byleth blurts. She opens her mouth to elaborate and explain why, but words fail her again. Her mind races with all the things she wants to say. _We cannot have a war right now, we cannot let other students and villagers and monks and priests die. We cannot act without first trying to achieve peace, without first seeking understanding._

_We… we cannot give up on her, we cannot let her die…_

_Can we?_

"If you cannot, Professor... I will,” Ferdinand vows, turning for the door. “For the good of _all_ of Fódlan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read this far, thank you so much! You reading my work means the world to me. I know I stopped updating this fic for like two months, and that's because admittedly, I have been struggling with, well, everything. In early April, I went from being insanely busy at work to being laid-off to save my employer costs during the pandemic. I've been busy trying to find new work, health insurance, etc. etc., and because of the absolute insanity that is our world right now, I've been uninspired to pursue my hobbies due to my mental health. Thankfully, I've been feeling better as of late, and I'm reinvigorated to continue writing again. Thanks for sticking with me and this fic, even when I don't post consistently.
> 
> I hope you are all healthy and staying safe wherever you are in the world.
> 
> I wanted to end on this note: It's so important that everyone engages in crucial conversations about racial justice, discrimination, and bias. If you are interested in learning more, I recommend the following books: [_Eloquent Rage_](https://www.amazon.com/Eloquent-Rage-Feminist-Discovers-Superpower/dp/1250112575), [_Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together In The Cafeteria?_](https://www.amazon.com/Black-Kids-Sitting-Together-Cafeteria/dp/0465060684), and [_So You Want to Talk About Race_](https://www.amazon.com/You-Want-Talk-About-Race/dp/1580056776).
> 
> If you are able, please consider donating to one of these organizations: [NAACP Legal Defense & Educational Fund](https://www.naacpldf.org/about-us/) | [Minnesota Freedom Fund](https://minnesotafreedomfund.org/) | [Campaign Zero](https://www.joincampaignzero.org/)


	8. The Chariot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand gives a deadline. Hubert explores Abyss. Byleth has an unexpected visitor. Seteth loses his cool. Dorothea learns how to ride a horse. Linhardt makes a curious discovery. Dimitri finally returns Byleth's pillow and blanket.
> 
> “As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods. They kill us for their sport.”  
>  _-King Lear, 4.1.42-43_

Ferdinand walks out of her room, presumably to speak to Rhea. Byleth calls out after him as she follows him off the steps and into the grass, Felix not far behind her, but she pulses back before he can make it across the courtyard. They repeat the same conversation again and again. _How many times?_ She's lost count—over a half-dozen at least. Each time she can’t find the words to sway him, the words to define her mission. A few times he raises his voice at her—those are the worst. Thought most times, she’s the one letting frustration spill over into her speech. Felix stands silently for nearly every interaction—except for one where he pulls her back inside her quarters after Ferdinand leaves to do his own yelling.

“This is why I told you to pulse back,” Felix hisses, his fingers curled tightly around her forearm. _“This_ is why I told you to have Linhardt look at that fucking crest stone _moons_ ago! It’s no wonder why Ferdinand can’t trust us—you tell him that Edelgard’s going to start a war, but you won’t tell him _everything,_ and we still have the same handful of half-solved bullshit that we did at the beginning. We’ve made next to no progress.”

Byleth lowers her head, and the swordsman tears his hand away to run it through his hair. His aggravation is palpable.

“Look, I know we’ve saved Miklan. And Flayn and Annette,” he concedes. “But we let Jeritza get away. Monica and Tomas are still here. And while I’m wary about the Church, too… we don’t have anything concrete yet—about you, about Duscur, or anything,” he sighs. “As for Edelgard and her soldiers… those dark mages...”

Felix lifts his eyes to the ceiling, a forlorn look on his tired face. Byleth sees the expression of a man who is about to give up—a warrior who knows the battle is lost. It startles her to her core.

“I want to believe in a world where war is inevitable, Byleth… but what have we done to stop her? Are you even going to do anything at all?”

Byleth clasps her hands behind her head, tucking her chin down to her chest as a wave of nausea hits her. She has a few more pulses left, she knows. And despite knowing the destination… of all the things to come in the flow of time… she feels so completely and utterly lost. She pulses back again, and her head feels like it’s going to split open.

  
  
  


_“I want to help things, not stand idly to watch more innocent people suffer.”_

_“Others’ true intentions are often hidden at first. That I promise you.”_

_“I fear that they are still working in the shadows, committing the same horrors to other children."_

  
  
  


"You... You knew... but you let Edelgard get away that day in the courtyard," Ferdinand exclaims, pointing at Felix. "And you... you were—"

  
  


_“Because you’re afraid to do anything.”_

  
  


"Professor—"

"I cannot be afraid any longer,” Byleth whimpers to herself, though Felix must have heard her as he moves toward her when her voice cracks. She waves him off despite her legs feeling weak beneath her as she waivers side to side. Felix is right—if they’re to gain his trust, she needs to tell him the entire story.

“Ferdinand, you asked me before how long I knew that Edelgard was the Flame Emperor? I’ve known since the moment I met Edelgard in Remire. I have known that long because I have lived a life where she leads the Empire in a war that tears Fódlan apart for five years. I chose to return here to… make things right,” she sighs.

Felix gives her a panicked look, simply too stunned at her admission to formulate a retort. Ferdinand, on the other hand, maintains a puzzled expression. "Professor… are you not feeling well?" he murmurs. “Perhaps you should sit down…”

“No, no,” she insists. “I know it may be hard to believe, but I swear to you that I am telling the truth.”

“Professor, I mean you are bleeding.”

Her eyes widen as she touches her nose with the back of her hand and feels the wetness there.

"Please don’t leave,” Byleth begs him as he moves to walk across the room. Instead of heading to the door, Ferdinand bends down by her wardrobe and plucks a towel from a pile of clothing on the floor. He turns and offers the towel to her, and she realizes she’s trembling when she reaches out to grab it.

“I am not leaving. Not yet. I have questions,” Ferdinand tells her as he helps her take a seat on the edge of her bed. He studies her intently for a moment as she blots her nose. “Do you need me to get Manula? You look unwell—”

“No, she’ll be fine,” Felix interrupts gruffly. “This happens when she jumps back too many times. Manuela would just start to ask questions, and none of us need that right now.”

Ferdinand looks confused. “Jump back?”

She tells him everything— all the details he wants to know about the fate of their classmates in her past life… and her regrets, as well. She also tells him about what has happened in _this_ life, about her and Felix’s investigation into the dark mages, the discovery of the underground library and Abyss, the mystery of her birth and her powers. As she weaves the tale, she quickly realizes that each fragment is part of a story more complicated than Byleth can even wrap her mind around in her current state.

That, and it’s painfully obvious to her now that they are all just fragments—dozens and dozens of paint strokes, but unable to see the completed portrait.

Her throat feels hoarse and she stifles a cough. “Sorry, I have been doing most of the talking.”

“Well, this is probably the furthest you’ve gotten in the conversation, if I had to hazard a guess” Felix quips from where he lingers at the edge of the room. “Considering you’ve told him everything.”

“Oh…” Ferdinand trails off, mulling over the _everything_ that has just been revealed to him. “So, you know Edelgard is the Flame Emperor… and you have seen what she and her followers have done twice over now. Excuse my forwardness, Professor, but why not alert the Church?”

Byleth’s mouth tightens. _Back to this again._ “I will not allow her identity to be revealed to the Church until I know for certain that we are prepared for the repercussions."

"But _why,_ Professor? What could you possibly have to lose?” he asks her, gentler this time. There’s still disappointment in his voice, the sting of secrets revealed.

Byleth dabs her nose again with the towel. "It would throw all of Fódlan into a war that we are not yet equipped to fight. I must keep you all safe, and until that can happen, I will not raise a blade against her."

Ferdinand curls his gloved hand into a fist at his side and furrows his brow. “Edelgard has defiled the Church and threatened those here at the monastery, Kingdom, Alliance, and Empire alike! My father and the other great families of the Empire can quell Edelgard and her attempt to seize power—they have done it before. What is there to be gained from waiting?”

“It’s too late for that,” Byleth counters. “The only coup happening this time is against people _like_ your father—Counts Bergliez and Herving are on Edelgard’s side already. Besides, we need more time to learn more about her army, her other associates—Solon, Kronya...” _The man who blasted me off the cliff and prevented me from saving my father,_ she thinks darkly.

“Learn more about what exactly? You seem to have a firm grasp on the situation at hand. Do not tell me you think she is worth entertaining your doubts,” Ferdinand shakes his head. “Do you expect me to walk about and accept your idleness for espionage?”

Felix snorts, and she cringes inwardly at the sound knowing that it was made out of agreement with the Black Eagle’s sentiments.

"If it is true that Edelgard has grown an army under our noses, how can you just sit there and do nothing?” Ferdinand accuses sharply. “I do not see you raising an army, Professor."

Byleth stiffens, the flow of time freezing and cracking until it splinters into thousands of gleaming violet fragments around her. She can feel the patter of blood on her shirt, his words still echoing in her head as it throbs painfully.

"Are you going back?" Sothis asks, breaking the silence.

"Yes, to the day we rescued Flayn. I can't have him go with Felix... I can't have him see..." Byelth mumbles back, her headache making it difficult to articulate her words.

"What if you can't rescue Flayn this time?” The goddess paces around Byleth, one hand on her hip and the other twirling a piece of her emerald hair. “And if you do, will you be able to secure a seat at the investigation of those mages with Seteth? Will you be able to apprehend _any_ of them at all?"

"Does any of that even matter?” Byleth snaps back. “I can't... I can't— _we_ can't have the war happen right now!"

"Byleth, you're going to risk your health and all the progress you've made the last few days because you can't explain to Ferdinand—"

"He’s going to walk out that door and tell the Church! How am I supposed to protect everyone then?”

"Byleth, you trusted him enough to let it go the last few days. Have you forgotten all he has done for you in your previous life? You yourself said he was a powerful ally before—so what's stopping you from making that happen now?" Sothis demands.

Byleth turns away, her eyes stinging with tears that rush forth. _Pathetic pathetic pathetic,_ she chastises herself, feeling like a fool for crying. _Goddess, I have failed, haven’t I? I’ve failed yet again._

"You’ve only failed because you have been faithless in those who can aid you. It's pathetic to see that you are afraid to tell them the _real_ truth. Can you even be honest with yourself?" Sothis implores with a commanding tone. "You didn't tell them that you could have let Edelgard die that day."

Byleth tries to wipe the blood off her shirt, but it smears into a deep crimson stain. She doesn’t respond to Sothis—she can’t even bring herself to look up at her out of shame. The goddess sighs and tugs on Byleth’s arm so she can actually face her. “Do you remember _why_ you came back here, at least?”

Byleth blinks at her. "I came back here to save people..."

“Who?”

“Dimitri…” her voice cracks at the painful memories flooding back. “Bernadetta, Lorenz… _Ashe…”_ Tears begin to roll down her cheeks, mingling with blood as it drips off her chin and bottom lip in rivlets. “I came back to save everyone.” 

_"Everyone?_ Even Edelgard?"

"If I can," Byleth insists.

"Ah, _there_ it is. No wonder you're too ashamed to tell them that." Sothis nods to Felix and Ferdinand. "They are ready to draw their weapons against Edelgard, and you're afraid they'll turn their blades against _you_ if you tell them about the doubts you have?”

"They aren’t doubts,” Byleth shoots back. “I failed Edelgard as much as I failed Dimitri and Bernadetta and Lor—"

“You were so eager to destroy that Kronya, but you flinch at the thought of raising a blade against the girl who brought her into this monastery? Don’t tell me you think you can convince her to end her mission? Honestly, Byleth. Your idealism has frustrated me to no end," Sothis all but shouts back. Byleth cannot remember a time where she has seen the goddess this affronted. It does little to stop her from arguing back, though.

 _“You_ were the one that told me that I can put an end to the suffering of this land! That is my only aim—”

“A peaceful resolution to Fódlan’s plight may be impossible! Are you prepared for that?” Sothis cuts Byleth off again as she narrows her eyes at her. “What makes you think Edelgard is worth saving? What could you _possibly_ do to sway her from her mission?"

  
  


_“We share the same enemy… yet, it appears you also have another.”_

  
  


Byleth groans, smashing her forehead into the palm of her hand. She swallows hard, trying to move past the pain to form words. “What if it’s _not_ her mission?”

“I beg your pardon?” Sothis scoffs. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“There’s something _more_ happening here,” Byleth says, shaking her head. She winces against the throbbing at the back of her skull and her voice waivers. “Something that’s bigger than all of us. That much I know is true. Things just… don’t make sense. Why would Edelgard and Hubert seek out and fight their own soldiers and mages underground, not once but _twice?”_

Sothis rolls her eyes and folds her arms. “They fought their own men several times before, lest you forget. They are quite good at playing the role of dutiful students.”

“There’s something different about this, though.”

  
  


_"We can’t negotiate with them. We'll die here…"_

_“Please don’t make me go back, miss! I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go.”_

_“We can never allow such atrocities to happen again.”_

  
  


Byleth shakes her head, voices from dreams and memories slipping away back to waves of pain. “You were right, before,” she changes the topic. “About the investigation. Regardless, I cannot risk losing the opportunity to learn more about those mages... about Edelgard’s plans.”

_The body… the Red Canyon… the crest stones… the Sword of the Creator… her mother… her crest..._

“And there’s more you want to learn about _you,_ right?” Sothis adds.

Byleth nods. "I _need_ to. The Church is hiding their own secrets—in Edelgard’s mind, they’re terrible enough to start a war. And my father… they were enough for him to keep from it my entire life,” she trails off. “But even if I get all the answers, I hope that it’s enough to make a difference.”

Sothis looks at Byleth for a quiet moment. "I hope you can prove me wrong about Edelgard. Them, too,” she says finally, motioning to Felix and Ferdinand. The shards begin to knit back together around them—the flow of time slowly easing back into movement. “For the sake of Fódlan."

Byleth sucks in a breath as time resumes; Sothis has vanished, leaving her two students waiting for her response with bated breath.

"You're not wrong,” she begins, keeping her words measured as she thinks of how to phrase her response. “Edelgard already has been mobilizing her soldiers, as we’ve seen. So we'll need to find allies in preparation of a possible outbreak of war against the Empire. But we also need to learn more about the Flame Emperor's army and their deeper political motivations if there’s any chance at a peaceful resolution."

Ferdinand paces the room shaking his head. "No, no… You say she has the Empire’s army. That cannot possibly be true—my father would have certainly taken notice of troops appropriated elsewhere. Her men must be hired… an army of rogues and those dark mages?"

"Hate to break it to you, but she’s moving everything into her pocket without your father knowing," Felix chimes in. "Though those dark mages are _really_ what we should be worried about. Soldier to soldier, the Kingdom and Alliance has the Empire beat. But the kind of magic those mages do… it’s enough to tip the scales in their favor _easily._ Not to mention the librarian is one of them. Monica, too.”

Byleth nods. "They are terribly powerful people that the Flame Emperor has enlisted into her ranks. Edelgard mentioned that it was necessary that they work together in my last life. I suspect they have more power and influence than she afforded them,” she sighs, holding the towel to her nose as it continues to bleed.

"You make it sound like she didn't have a choice in the matter,” Felix scoffs. He scuffs the floorboards with the heel of his boot. “Doesn't change that she is working with them.”

"I realize that, but we need to know who they are and what their goal is... and _why_ she is working with them. It’s clear that she has… disagreements with them. You both told me that she was upset at Lord Arundel for giving her the order to assist the Death Knight, right?”

Felix purses his lips and nods reluctantly, leaning back against Byleth’s desk. “Could be signs of a power struggle within her ranks,” he acquiesces. “And as much as I hate the bastard, it makes little sense for Hubert to risk his life to attack his ally like he did. That goes for Edelgard, too. But _you_ are going to have to find out what’s going on with that. You’re closest to her.”

He says the last sentence with particular disdain that leaves Byleth oddly unsettled. His dislike for Edelgard is one thing that has remained constant between this life and her last. It will likely be the same for Ferdinand—she doesn’t think it’s worth trying to convince them to like her. Hell, Byleth doesn’t even know if she likes her.

She thinks about Sothis’ question… What about Edelgard makes her worth saving? _Do I pity her? Do I believe in her mission? Is it just guilt that I feel for having sided against her? Or am I simply just too naive to understand the intricately woven political history of Fódlan?_

Byleth sighs deeply. Maybe it’s one of those reasons or another—or a combination of all of them. Regardless of the reason, she feels called to give Edelgard a chance to be saved. And Byleth doesn’t have to _like_ Edelgard to do that--she only has to believe that she’s capable of better.

"You've been quiet, Ferdinand," she observes. The red-head looks up suddenly, interrupted from being lost in thought.

"I… I must admit that I am confused by you, Professor,” he states dryly. “You have this profound gift, and you desire to use it to prevent a terrible and bloody war. Yet, you only seem interested in understanding the one who commands it."

Byleth shakes her head in disagreement. "I'm interested in doing my best in this life, because I allowed too many people to suffer in the last one."

"Even her?"

"Yes. Even her."

The itch of doubt creeps up on her—the slightest doubt that she can really win Ferdinand over. Maybe Felix was right—he found out too soon or he just isn’t destined to be her ally in this life. Either way, she still has pulses left, and she will use one if this conversation results in him leaving again. But Byleth figures she should at least put everything out on the table before he decides to walk out that door once more.

“If you still don’t believe me, fine,” she says. “You can tell Lady Rhea, you can tell your father and the Kingdom and the Alliance. I will just pulse back to before you ran into Edelgard and Lord Arundel in the courtyard that day—you won’t go with Felix to the infirmary, and none of this will have ever happened. You’ll carry on unaware of the Flame Emperor and the lot of it.”

She levels her gaze at him before continuing. “But, Ferdinand… I ask that you speak to your father first before making your decision. Ask him about Hrym. About the Emperor’s children during the Insurrection.”

“The emperor’s children? What does that matter?” he asks, still skeptical. “They were all exiled during that time. Some came back to Enbarr after it was safe… Edelgard was one of them.”

“And what about the others? Edelgard told me she had 10 siblings. Where are they now?”

“I fail to see what my father has to do with this.”

“Just ask him. Maybe the answer will surprise you,” Byleth states firmly. She thinks back to Edelgard’s confession to her in the cathedral. About how she blamed the prime minister for the fates of her siblings. Byleth cannot claim to know _all_ of the details, but hopefully Ferdinand can seek out the truth for the both of them. “And in the meantime, hopefully you can afford me some more time to investigate Edelgard’s army—the mages and the mercenaries in Abyss. You and I worked side by side in another life, Ferdinand. I am asking you to trust me enough in this one; I know that we can be allies again—”

“In your last life, we were allied _against_ Edelgard,” he corrects her.

Byleth bows her head, studying the way her blood has dyed the woven threads of the towel in her hands in ugly splotches of ruby. “All I am asking is for you to consider if there’s a possibility that it doesn’t have to come to that.”

The pain in her skull is making her dizzy the longer that she sits upright, but Byleth grits her teeth and persists. It feels like hours pass as she sits on the edge of her bed, waiting for Ferdinand’s response. He stops pacing, opting to just stand there with a pensive expression that she attempts to read, but comes up empty-handed. Felix is equally quiet, now sitting on the edge of her desk. He appears as lost in thought as Ferdinand.

"I will give you until after the Battle of the Eagle and Lion at the end of this moon,” Ferdinand replies finally. His voice is quiet, but firm. “If you still have no plan for these dark mages or what to do about Edelgard by that time… I will not hesitate to tell Archbishop Rhea, or my father. However, if you can convince me that Edelgard is worth sparing, I will pledge to help you where I am able. Until then, what you shared with me, I will keep secret.”

Byleth sees Felix fold his arms across his chest out of the corner of her eye. She lets out a steady breath of relief—a glimmer of hope. If Sothis were here, Byleth is sure she would be quick to scold this kind of optimism. Nevertheless, she takes this positive development with a grain of salt—Ferdinand is an ally to be earned. Felix, too. With newfound determination, she is prepared to forge a future without the pain, destruction, and loss of war. For them, and for _everyone._

“That is agreeable.”

“Very well then,” Ferdinand nods. He’s silent for another moment, before looking up at Byleth with a somber expression. “I have to know... How? Knowing what she has done, that she has betrayed and lied to us… How can you look Edelgard in the face, Professor?”

  
  
  
  


* * *

Hubert returns to the dormitories right at nightfall; he resists the urge to linger outside the door to Dorothea’s room that is now unfortunately shared by Monica. Eavesdropping at this hour isn’t prudent, as he risks detention from one of the monks or Knights on their rounds which have surely started already. The monastery has increased the nighttime rounds and are now enforcing curfew at sundown—mostly due to the inexplicable ‘people roaming around the monastery.’ Or, as Hilda calls them, _‘super shady people.’_

After the impromptu agreement with the Abyssians the other night, he likes to call them what they are: dark mages and Thales’ hirelings.

Hubert kicks off his boots and moves to put his stack of books down when he sees a folded piece of parchment lying on the center of his desk. Sliding the tomes onto the mahogany table top, he loosens the parchment from its wax seal and unfolds it to reveal a letter addressed to him.

  
  


_Hubert,_

_My uncle paid me a visit last afternoon. He confirmed that he is the one who sent the mercenaries and the Death Knight down into Abyss, though it’s still unknown his reason for doing so. Moreover, he is forbidding me from interfering with his activities in Abyss. Normally this would do little to deter me… but I don’t believe it to be wise to cross my uncle at this time. He is watching me closely._

_I have also come to learn that Monica is not Monica von Ochs. She is one of them, only using Monica as a disguise to blend into the students at the Academy. And to be close to me. She is monitoring me, and will no doubt notice if I attempt to join you and the others down in Abyss._

_I am not confident that I will be able to check on Jeritza to ensure he is safe—you will likely run into him again in Abyss before I have a chance to speak with him. My uncle has effectively seized control of him, and I must admit that I worry for Jeritza. While I know he is likely the last person you wish to meet right now, could you please find him? He should be able to tell you what my uncle is planning. If he has made it to Enbarr, he should be in_ _Wilhelmina’s old estate._

_My other request is for you to aid Professor Byleth and the others in Abyss. Apart from our personal interests in helping them, it unsettles me that the Church relegates such a place for those seeking refuge, yet seeks to purge it. I pledged to support the Abyssians. If you could do so in my stead, I would be most grateful._

_And lastly, please take care of yourself, Hubert. Be safe. Our fight is only just beginning._

_-Edelgard_

  
  


The parchment crinkles in Hubert’s hands. He folds the letter up into a small square and places it on the stone window sill. With a burst of magic, the parchment is aflame, the edges quickly turning to black. Hubert pushes open the window, allowing the smoke and ash to escape into the cool night air.

Most of Edegard’s letter comes with no surprise to him. He overheard Arundel and Monica back in the infirmary. And dispatching the Death Knight again in Abyss the other night means that he and Edelgard obstructed Arundel’s plans not once, but twice. And while he agrees it wise that the princess not test her uncle by continuing to traipse about underground, part of him rues the fact that means he will be alone amongst the other students and the Ashen Wolves.

He also prickles at the thought of seeking out Jeritza. While he’d never say it to Edelgard, to be concerned with Jeritza’s safety is laughable at best—the man would maim any threat in his way, including Hubert. Seeking a meeting with him would be to ensure his loyalty and gain intelligence, nothing more. And just because he acknowledges the necessity of such a meeting, doesn’t mean that Hubert is looking forward to it. His ribs ache at the thought.

Hubert would warp to him this evening, but the Professor and Yuri agreed that the makeshift group of students and Ashen Wolves would conviene again tonight. He tugs back on his leather boots and plucks a cloak from the back of his desk chair.

He arrives early, allowing himself enough time to poke around the expansive library that Linhardt and Claude spend so much time in. He found several books in Albinean, and a few more in Morfish. One tome in particular he tucks again into his cloak—a text with various transmutation circles. While most of it is in Morfish, Hubert can tell from the magical formulas that several of the spells heavily use the element of water—a style of black magic practically unheard of in Fódlan.

After a few of the others trickle in, Hubert decides to meander through the marketplace. There are weapons dealers and blacksmiths decorated with ornate tattoos across amber skin, children covered in soot feeding scraps of food to mangy cats. Nestled behind broken scaffolding is an alcove that has been made into a makeshift shrine. More strays skitter across the damp stone as Hubert gazes up at the onyx statue.

“Well, _this_ isn’t the goddess,” he murmurs.

“She is not,” a woman says from behind him, startling Hubert. Her face is covered and she speaks in a thick accent. “The goddess of Fódlan is not one of my gods, but the statue here is not one of my gods either. I offer my prayers here all the same, because Abyss is where it is allowed.”

Hubert nods, and turns to look back at the statue. It’s seen better days, that much is certain. The profile of the sculpture has been broken and worn away by trials and time to the point where it is indistinguishable. Its wings remain, though worn as well. Coins, fruit, and bits of cloth litter the feet of the statue—offerings to the faceless deity.

 _Are there winged gods that hide their true face in Brigid or Duscur?_ Hubert wonders darkly. _Or perhaps in Almyra or Morfis._

He ducks out of the altar, feeling more out-of-place than he did with Claude and Hilda around. Turning the corner into the library, he sees the other students have shown up, along with the Ashen Wolves. He spies the Professor and makes his way over to her; she’s pouring over what appears to be a crude map of the tunnels beneath the monastery. _Planning tonight’s scouting mission, no doubt._

“I’m surprised to see you here, Hubert,” the Professor says softly, though she doesn’t turn to face him.

He chuckles. “We made a promise to the people of Abyss, didn’t we? Or do you expect me so callous to not care about the threat to the people here?”

“No, not that,” she shakes her head. “I didn’t see you in class this afternoon, so I figured you might be resting. How are you?”

 _How am I? What a pathetic question—it’s not like she or anyone here_ truly _cares about my well being,_ Hubert thinks darkly.

“Don’t waste your worry on me, Professor. I am well enough to be here,” he says instead. His statement is half-true; he can walk and talk and hold his own should a skirmish with more of Arundel’s mercenaries cross their path tonight. But the events from two nights ago aggravated his healing injuries, and the increased pain and stiffness has blighted him since. Not that he’d mention it to anyone.

“I see. Where is Edelgard?”

“She is unable to attend; Lady Edelgard is busy helping Monica get caught up with her studies. She asked that I send apologies to you and the others,” he states simply with a bow of his head. The Professor offers a nod in lieu of a response, returning her attention to the map.

“Professor Byleth, Hubert—please forgive my most rude interruption,” Constance exclaims. The heels of her boots click on the floor as she hurries over to them. “I wanted to introduce you to Aelfric—our most humble benefactor, a true and honest advocate for the people of Abyss!”

Beside Constance is a meek-looking man, only a few inches shorter than Hubert. He smiles warmly, his face showing faint wrinkles around the corner of his mouth and forehead—they seem out of place for someone his age. His eyes are kind, but his robes are that of the Church. _So how kind and true are you really?_ The man extends his hand to the Professor.

“Professor Byleth Eisner, is it? I am Aelfric,” he greets her with a gentle voice. Hubert remains lingering behind the Professor to cautiously evaluate this stalwart of the Church. “Archbishop Rhea has granted me custodianship of Abyss. I believe… we have crossed paths before. In Seteth’s office?”

Hubert's eyes flick down to the Professor, now even more intrigued. She releases Aelfric’s handshake and nods. “Yes, I believe so. It’s… a pleasure to finally meet,” she replies with a measured tone.

“The pleasure is all mine. And pardon my rudeness, you must be?” Aelfric asks, looking directly at Hubert who grimaces at being noticed.

“Hubert,” he answers, shaking his hand. “Hubert von Vestra.”

“Ah, Hubert. I am thankful that you and the other students are willing to lend us your aid. I am sure you have already been told about Abyss’ unique situation. For varying reasons, all of the inhabitants here are unable to live a peaceful life on the surface. People like the Dagdans and Almyrans, who suffer undue persecution across Fódlan... the poor and the sick… outcast nobility… all of whom are forced into Abyss due to their circumstances. I believe it is my sacred duty to provide a place for those who have nowhere else to go.”

“Right. And the poor and sick living in a sunless crypt helps them… how?” Claude interjects. He stands on the opposite side of the Professor’s makeshift sand table, having listened in on Aelfric’s explanation without invitation. While Hubert finds Claude’s insatiable curiosity and tendency to inject himself into business not of his own… he can’t help but smirk in agreement with his question.

“Beneath the Central Church, no less,” Hubert adds flippantly. “I cannot imagine the monastery tolerates non-believers and those with no coin to tithe.”

The others begin to gather around, and Aelfric frowns at the lot of them. “I understand your concerns,” he says earnestly, motioning toward Claude. “I dearly wish I could provide a better life for my flock. And Hubert,” he turns to face him now, “you are not far off. It would appear that Her Grace and most of the church consider the existence of Abyss to be… something of a nuisance.”

“A nuisance?” Hubert asks. _As expected._

“I’m afraid so… Those within the church who would see Abyss purged are swiftly growing in number. I am just one voice, unfortunately drowned out by many others.”

“That’s the church for you,” Hapi adds dryly. “They make a big deal out of helping the helpless… when it suits them.” She stands apart from the others with her arms folded. The red-head is by far the most outspoken of the Ashen Wolves, yet always lingers on the sidelines—hesitant, in a way, to interact with Hubert and the other Academy students. Perhaps she’s wary of speaking her mind in front of students who have such close ties to the Church, especially considering the unfavorable opinion she has of the Church. That is something Hubert can sympathize with.

The grappler Balthus steps over and claps a hand to her shoulder; Hapi shirks away from him, clearly annoyed by the gesture. Hubert stifles a chuckle. “We can’t just sit back and accept the way things are,” he booms. “Sure, I’m here to hide from literally countless bounty hunters, but I’m not the only one in need. You’re in a bad way too, Hapi. We can’t just let the church walk all over us.”

“Too true,” Constance agrees. “For the sake of all who dwell in Abyss, we must help dear Aelfric to turn the tide!”

Aelfric shakes his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. Hubert studies him closely and he appears… nervous. “I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Your fervent support is all the reward I could ask for. As for you, Professor, I must beg a favor of you.”

Looking over at the Professor, he watches as her brow furrows just the slightest in surprise or confusion. But of course, she quickly relaxes her face so as to not betray any emotion, as Hubert has noticed she is inclined to do.

“The Ashen Wolves are a house in name alone. They are eager students with no teacher to guide them,” Aelfric continues. “If you could find it in your heart to take them under your wing, I would be most grateful.”

Yuri, who is akin to ghost stories that steal away nights of pleasant sleep, suddenly makes himself known. While Hapi lingers on the edge of the room, the leader of the Ashen Wolves must prefer to linger in the shadows, waiting for the best moment to strike with his sword—or in this case, his sharp tongue.

“Wait a minute, Aelfric,” he snaps with an intensity that takes the others aback. “Where’s this nonsense coming from?”

“Dear flock, I am a mere guardian. I can try my best to protect you and the rest of Abyss, but I cannot enrich your minds. Though I call this gathering an academy house, I have long lamented that it isn’t truly so. Now, I am blessed with the opportunity to correct this. The professor who stands before you has garnered a great deal of acclaim on the surface. A most trustworthy and esteemed teacher, to say the least. What’s more, I happen to be acquainted with the father of this fine individual.”

The Professor’s eyes widen. _How curious._

“How do you know my father?” she all but whispers.

“I was born and raised here at Garreg Mach, you see, so I often had the opportunity to spend time with him when he was the captain of the Knights. Your mother, as well. She was a cherished friend of mine. I was even present for their wedding...” Aelfric trails off, a look of fondness washing over his features. 

_How very curious, indeed._

“With parents like yours, I have no doubt that you possess the kindness and patience necessary to guide these students.”

Hubert politely excuses himself from the conversation, wandering over to a corner bookcase. _So both of the Professor’s parents are connected to the Church, meaning the Professor is more deeply rooted at Garreg Mach than I originally thought,_ he muses. _At least that makes her sudden appointment to a professor less of a surprise._ Although, the Professor’s apparent lack of knowledge of her parents’ histories with the Church is of course rather suspicious. Coupled with her faith magic that she should have _no_ knowledge of if she never _really_ was involved with the Church of Serios? That can only mean that something is not true—or perhaps there’s even more layers to the mystery surrounding the Professor and her true alliance.

With a sigh, Hubert folds his arms and leans against the worn wooden railing of the mezzanine. _Even a mercenary professor has kind and loving parents,_ he thinks darkly. He would never know what that is like. The older he gets, the more Hubert laments his traitorous father and absent mother. Even considering his peers, their parents have always been far from how Aelfric described the Professor’s. It may be that abysmal parenting is but another sickness caused by the greed and power that the nobility prioritizes.

The sound of Constance’s boots behind him draws Hubert out of his thoughts. With a loud and annoyed huff, she slumps pathetically onto the railing beside him. The corners of Hubert’s mouth quirk up into a half-smile; even after all these years, Constance is still as contentious as he remembers her.

“We don’t need a professor when we have Aelfric,” she complains. “Besides, if I wanted a _true_ professor, I would have stayed and studied at the Royal School of Sorcery. It’s not like I could attend the Academy if I wanted too…”

He gives her a knowing nod. She is correct about the Academy—with the loss of her noble title, Constance was effectively rendered unable to attend the Officer’s Academy. While it is possible for commoners to attend the Academy, such a thing requires a hefty tuition that often is only achieved from securing a noble patron. Without the gold to attend the Academy, or the influence amongst the nobility of the Empire due to the unscrupulous political scene, Constance’s dreams of attending the Academy were squashed. The Royal School of Sorcery provides scholarship for its most gifted students—which is likely how Constance was able to study there. Garreg Mach would never provide such a thing at the expense of their own opportunity to increase the Church’s wealth.

Constance props her chin on her fist, gazing longingly out into the foggy gap beyond the railing. “Oh, Hubert. Imagine if I was at the Academy with you and Linhardt! It would be truly splendid, wouldn’t it? Reunited, just like old times.”

“And have to deal with Ferdinand?” he quips. “He is as self-important as ever, you’ll be pleased to know. Just like old times.”

“Oh Hubert, he was hardly as bad as you imply. He just had confidence—something you could have done with a little more of,” she tuts, playfully swatting his arm with her fan. “Can you truly fault him for that?”

“It was not confidence. It was always that Aegir arrogance, and you know that to be true.”

Constance sighs. “Well, I have not seen Ferdinand in years. I very much hope you are wrong—I always held hope that he would end up different than his father… That positively wretched man.”

Hubert snorts. It likely isn’t the most appropriate to Constance’s disdain of the Prime Minister… given how Duke Aegir failed to respond swiftly enough to the Dagda and Brigid invasion, resulting in the decimation of the Barony of Ochs and of course, Constance’s home of Nuvelle. While the invasion was ultimately quelled, had the Prime Minister mobilized the Empire’s forces sooner, perhaps Constance’s family and countless other citizens would still be alive today. And perhaps most insulting was Duke Aegir’s blatant refusal to help Constance—the last remaining Nuvelle—or the House of Ochs and their territories in their greatest time of need after the conflict.

Any comments Constance wishes to make about Ferdinand’s father are justified—and welcomed by Hubert. Part of him quite enjoys sharing a hatred of the Prime Minister with someone else.

“Who else is in the Black Eagle house this year?” she asks.

Hubert considers telling her about Petra and Dorothea, but decides to omit their names. Certainly hearing of the Brigid princess and a songstress commoner attending the Academy would upset her. 

“Caspar von Bergliez, and of course Lady Edelgard is our house leader.”

“Edelgard?! The Imperial princess herself?” Constance marvels. “Oh, my apologies for my unbridled excitement—I should not be so surprised since _you_ are here at the Academy—obviously you both would attend together. Nevertheless, how splendid! I would love to see her again.” She claps her hands together joyously.

Hubert exhales slowly, carefully considering his next words. “Constance, you _do_ realize that Lady Edelgard was here the other night.”

Constance gives him a perplexed look, her eyebrows knitting together. “Ahaha! You jest, Hubert. Surely I would have noticed seeing the princess had she been here!”

“She was here,” he explains gently. “Her hair is... lighter than you probably remember it.”

Hubert watches as Constance’s expression shifts from confusion to finally remembering the girl with the silvery white hair—the same one she nearly hit with a Fimbulvetr spell two nights ago. “Oh… _Oh!_ Well, I was so very rude to not acknowledge her and her most fashionable new hairstyle! So imprudent of me… I must offer my sincerest apologies when she joins us tonight.”

“She won’t be here tonight, I’m afraid,” Hubert replies.

Constance swats him again with her fan with a sigh. “Well, are you not the bearer of terrible news today, Hubert! Regardless of today’s circumstances, the three of us must all enjoy a cup of tea to celebrate our reunion. A remarkable reunion against all odds!” she proclaims with a beaming smile.

Hubert manages a small smile down at her. Perhaps it isn’t such a bad idea— someone like Constance who has fallen out of the Empire’s nobility could make a powerful ally, especially considering her magical prowess. And Hubert can’t help but think that surely Edelgard would enjoy a reunion with an old friend, especially after the short-lived happiness of being reunited with Monica was revealed to be nothing but another one of _their_ schemes.

“Say, Greta and Hildegund must be attending the Academy this year as well! Please, we must also invite them!” she urges him.

Hubert takes a sharp breath. “They are not attending, Constance.”

“They aren’t?” she wonders, looking up at him. He avoids her gaze. “I suppose, Greta never really was keen on studying. And, well, come to think of it, little sweet Hilde probably attended last year… though I cannot for the life of me remember seeing her on the monastery grounds... Certainly a Hresvelg attending the Academy would be the village gossip!”

 _You’re right—it would be the topic of conversation._ _It’s been many years since a Hresvelg attended the Officer’s Academy—in large part due to the cruel end of many Hresvelgs. The tragedy that remains the Empire’s best kept secret._

“You misunderstand.”

“That look on your face, Hubert… I do not like it! Do not tell me you suggest…”

Hubert shakes his head and lets his eyes fall shut. When he opens them, Constance is looking up at him, visibly distraught. “You cannot mean—” she whispers, but is cut off by Hubert shushing her. Her eyes widen at the implication.

“Dear goddess… pray tell, how could such a tragic fate befall the Hresvelg house unbeknownst to us all?”

  
  
  


* * *

The night after the group went scouting down in Abyss, Byleth feels restless. Like an itching in her bones to get back down there—not to look for mercenaries, mages, or the Death Knight, though. She wants to find the mysterious body she stumbled across the first time she went underground.

A midnight adventure would be an apt use of her time; it’s not like she could sleep, anyway. Since meeting Aelfric, the connection between him and her father and mother has bothered her. A monk for the church sharing stories with her—a total stranger—upon their first formal meeting… yet Byleth cannot convince her own father to spare a single moment to share anything at all with her. _The only way I can know my family is through the eyes of others, I guess._ It feels… unfair. 

She and Felix set out to Abyss that night, a sliver of moon waning in the sky amongst the stars. Now they are blessed with access to various maps of the winding tunnels, offering both direction and a helpful cover if they were to run into any of the Ashen Wolves. After hours of searching through miles of tunnels, they come up empty-handed. Disappointed and exhausted, they return to the surface.

With a sigh, Byleth stays in the shadows and keeps an eye out for monks and Knights on their nightly rounds before slipping quietly back into her quarters. She pulls her door shut behind her, and kicks off her boots.

“Pleasant evening, isn't it?”

Byleth reaches for the Sword of the Creator, drawing the weapon as it glows in the dim candlelight of her room. The voice belongs to Yuri; he’s perched in her window like a bird, wisps of his violet hair fluttering in the cool night breeze.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Byleth demands, her voice biting.

“Oh, you know… just snooping about.”

“In places you don't belong,” she clarifies.

Yuri laughs, the pigment on his eyelids catching the light. “Something _you_ know good and well about.”

Byleth’s lips press into a thin line. Her hand tightens around the grip of her sword. How can she _not_ be on edge around him? As long as he can move around her Divine Pulses, he poses a threat to her. Not to mention she knows _nothing_ of him from her previous life. The man tried to hurt or kill her twice. Yuri is dangerous and unpredictable.

“We're past the stage of being coy, don't you think? I know you're curious about that body you found in Abyss. You can ask me what I know about it, you know?” he needles. His hands curl around the edge of the window sill as he leans forward teasingly.

“Well then, if we're not being coy… out with it,” Byleth huffs.

“It's more pleasant for me to chat with you when there's not a blade in your hand, friend.”

“We are _not_ friends.”

“Hmm, I disagree,” Yuri smirks with a raise of his eyebrows. “We do seem to have an odd connection.”

Byleth snorts. _A connection? More like you are_ always _in my way. There’s not a chance I let down my blade around you,_ she thinks as she steadies her sword.

“I mean, I know I'm no _prince..._ but you have powerful magic that only _little ol’ me_ seems to be aware of. That certainly means we're destined for each other, no?” He smiles down at her with too many teeth.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Byleth’s brow furrows, and she leans forward with her blade threatening in her hand.

Yuri throws his hands up in a display of mock ignorance. “Wait, me being unaffected by whatever spell you do or your close relations with His Highness?”

“I don't know what you're referring to,” she replies quickly. Her mind reels even faster, though.

“Oh, you can't lie to me, darling,” he laughs back at her. His grey eyes twinkle impishly. “I've seen what goes on around the monastery when you think no one's looking.”

 _Is he bluffing? If he is, I’ve played right into his hand,_ she mentally berates herself. He doesn’t have any proof, but part of Byleth _knows_ that he knows. Yuri has been everywhere—underground in Abyss, likely eavesdropping on all her conversations with Claude and Linhardt, even Felix. He all but admitted that he was the one who slaughtered the room of dark mages that kidnapped Flayn and Annette.

Knowing he’s privy to knowledge of all going-abouts under Garreg Mach, it’s best to assume Yuri has been keeping tabs on things above ground, as well. And it’s evident to Byleth that he has a penchant or _something_ for prying into her business in particular.

“He is my student. And if you _really_ knew Dimitri, you would know that he would defend any of his professors against intruders and scoundrels,” she states firmly, attempting to deflect.

“Hmm, you are different, though. And I think he'd be more apt to defend your _honor_ over anything,” Yuri replies, tapping his chin. “Especially when _this scoundrel_ is stealing precious nighttime moments away from his beloved professor.” Byleth shoots him a glare.

“Actually, speaking of the prince, he is quite skilled in combat. I would appreciate it if you could convince him to join your little troupe to aid Abyss,” he continues, making the proposal with a wave of his hand. “Well… I doubt he'd need much convincing if _you_ are the one to ask him.”

“What if I refuse?”

Yuri laughs melodically and slips down from his seat in her window. Byleth takes a measured step back, Sword of the Creator still firmly in her grip. “Afraid that he'll get _jealous_ when he finds out you've been sneaking around with his childhood friend in the tunnels beneath the monastery? Or are you afraid he will think you're _undesirable_ when he learns of you stealing banned books and looking for dead bodies?”

Byleth sets her jaw and maintains eye contact with him as he so boldly taunts her. He leans in with a laugh, paying no mind to her Relic between them.

“How long will you keep the wool over his eyes, Miss Byleth? This world is dirty and full of horrors,” Yuri persists, his brow furrowing at his statement. “You and I face that truth unflinchingly instead of blindly accepting the one the Church paints for us. If Dimitri is to be king, isn't it time he learns the truth? That he looks into the eyes and hearts of the infirm, lost souls, foreigners, and oppressed that seek refuge here?”

She lets out a measured breath. “You're… not wrong,” she admits. After a beat of hesitation, she lowers her blade. Yuri lights up, likely feeling victorious; he places one hand on his hip and uses the other to twirl around a lock of his hair.

“So, do we have a deal? You bring your dearest princeling, and I won't say anything about your _dark magic,”_ he offers.

Byleth is quick to protest. “It's _not_ dark magic—”

“Ay, deal or no deal, sweetheart?”

“Fine,” she mutters after a beat of silence and a grumble. She does agree to his terms, admittedly; in fact, the idea of having Dimitri aid in any skirmishes in Abyss is a sound one, her personal feelings aside. He will make an apt replacement for Edelgard in terms of combat, and she trusts him to keep a low-profile about the underground as to not alert any other students or faculty. While Byleth agrees to cooperate with Yuri, she takes a cautionary step back from him and finally sheathes her sword, though she keeps her right hand firmly on the grip.

Yuri claps his hands together, his feet swinging excitedly as they dangle beneath him. “Excellent. I should be on my way now that our business here is done; don't want to give your prince the _wrong_ idea about us.”

Byleth maintains a stony expression as he giggles at his own joke.

“Oh. And just because I said I won't share your magic trick with others _doesn't_ mean that you and I are done discussing it,” he says, almost like a warning. His expression is serious for just that moment before shifting back to his usual carefree and confident persona. “But that's for another night.”

He hoists himself back up into her window, swinging his legs through.

“Yuri... wait,” Byleth says suddenly. He pauses, turning his head to look back at her. “Do you know where the body went?”

He’s hesitant, she can tell—giving her a bewildered look before answering. “I don't. You probably know this by now, but the Church has a lot of secrets. Well, that's one secret you're better off keeping your nose out of.”

Byleth nods despite the unease pooling in her gut.

"Trust me on this one, friend. But it really makes you wonder what other skeletons they're hiding, yeah?"

  
  
  
  


* * *

Seteth is no stranger to the Church’s judiciary process. Since coming to Garreg Mach nearly two decades ago, he has been involved in several proceedings following political unrest amongst various bishoprics and their territories, war time, and threats of violence upon the faith or the Archbishop herself. Little has changed since the Church’s inception—unfortunately, the Church has always been the target of violence from apostates and sinners.

Little has changed with how the Church handles such cases, too. The hearings have always been little about examination and more about swift and absolute judgement.

Seteth would prefer to be out ahead of such threats; since his summons, he has been persistent about the need for the Church to have a means of intelligence to better anticipate issues before they arise. Dispatching the Knights after the fire starts burning does little—a network of scouts, diplomats, and church representatives that integrate into the territories and churches around them could provide valuable intel and strengthened relationships with allies that would have a much better chance of snuffing a spark before it ignites.

Such an idea would require a level of trust that Lady Rhea simply does not have—not in Seteth, and not in the people of Fódlan. Part of Seteth cannot blame her; mankind can be hateful and violent, that much is indisputable. Violent acts must be punished—on that they will always agree. However, why not strive toward preventing violent acts? Certainly that’s what the goddess would want?

Seteth and Rhea have gotten into many arguments about these matters—especially concerning the goddess. Rhea clings only to the goddess’ other-worldly power and strength used to silence dissenters and those who wish harm upon her or her family; for this reason, Rhea sees protection as the swing of the sword. Blood will be shed for blood spilt. Seteth, on the other hand, remembers the goddess differently—as one who gave of herself wholly and tirelessly to defend the peace and prosperity that she had created with others through fellowship and mercifulness.

These disagreements of theirs about events long past came to a head after Brigid and Dagda invaded the Empire. The Archbishop refused to offer any aid, citing how the emperor exiled the bishop of the Southern Church and abolished it not soon after. When she wasn’t swayed by the thousands and thousands of lives cut short in another war, Seteth brought up how the war ended Saint Macuil’s bloodline that lived on in the nobility of the Nuvelle and Ochs regions.

“What does that matter? Macuil _left_ us,” she told him. “Just like you did.”

After that day, he left again—cited personal matters as his reason for his departure. Lady Rhea was right, he _did_ leave before, centuries ago. They didn’t agree then, and they certainly don’t agree now. Perhaps it would take another handful of centuries for her to summon him to the Church again. Maybe this time he would never return.

Not centuries, but little over one year later, she summoned him. In the aftermath of the Tragedy of Duscur, all of Fódlan was shaken; Faerghus had lost its king in a senseless event of destruction and hatred. She wrote to him about how there were several assassination attempts on her shortly after the Tragedy—about how she feared the two were connected. A heretical movement was taking root in western Faerghus, threatening to fracture the Western Church. Monks and priests were going missing from the monastery and the Knights were unable to trace them.

At first, he chalked up her request for his assistance to her increasing paranoia. Attempts on the Archbishop’s life were nothing new. But then, her letter mentioned that she had reason to believe that the rebellion in the Western Church could seek out him and Flayn—even though he had left the Church and she was still asleep. She urged that the Garreg Mach was the safest place for them—for Flayn.

So he returned.

Rhea granted him control of the Knights of Serios to investigate the uprisings in western Faerghus. Back then, he knew nothing about how those uprisings and events in Duscur were intertwined with the plots against the Archbishop and the Church. Back then, he believed Flayn would be safest at the monastery.

He places a hand on Byleth’s shoulder, gently ushering her follow along beside him as they step into the audience chamber. He whispers a quick explanation to her as they approach the front of the room, nodding to the three cardinals seated at the head table, dressed in their navy chasubles adorned with golden crests of Seiros. “Each branch of the Church is represented amongst the cardinals. Aelfric, of the Central Church; Dunstan, of the Western Church; and Siward, of the Eastern Church,” he explains.

Seteth meets Lady Rhea’s gaze as he slides into his own seat, Byleth pulling up a chair beside him. He can feel that she is uncomfortable as the Knights bring in the three captured mages.

Three reminders that Flayn is not safe at the monastery.

Three _painful_ reminders that the world is still cruel, as it has been for well over a millenia.

He steels himself before he opens the interrogation, ensuring his voice is even and devoid of any emotion bubbling inside of him. “All of you have committed a breach of faith,” he announces. “The Archbishop and the Church of Seiros will now pass judgement.”

Before Seteth can list the charges, Aelfric, who is typically quiet and meek, reads them off instead, surprising everyone. “Kidnapping. Unlawful entry. An attack on the students and faculty of Garreg Mach. Use of forbidden magic,” he reads off the parchment in his hands. “How do you plead?”

“It does not matter how they plead. They are _guilty,”_ Siward interjects with a wave of his hand. “Dishonoring the goddess with just vile crimes is worthy of death. To kidnap and threaten children…”

“That so, we ought to demand an explanation for such cruelty,” Aelfric insists.

“An explanation? What is there to explain? Surely they are well past the hope of redemption.”

“There was evidence of blood experiments on both of the girls—isn’t this an investigation into their motivations? We must know more to protect our students.” Aelfric turns away from Siward and addresses the three mages directly. “What use is the blood of two children to you?”

Seteth blinks from Aelfric to the mages who remain shackled and unspeaking. An uneven beat of silence follows the cardinal’s question, leaving Seteth to sit with bated breath on a response. While he has his own suspicions, he very much wants to hear the mages’ purpose for the kidnapping of Flayn and the other students from their own mouths.

“There is no need for explanation,” Rhea states. Seteth’s brow furrows at her words, and he bites his tongue so as to not start another argument.

Aelfric places his palms on the table and leans forward to protest. “Your Grace—”

“Aelfric, no matter their reasoning, there is no excuse for such heinous actions,” she cuts him off. “If they have any grace remaining, they will willingly offer their lives as atonement for their crimes.”

The cardinal wilts in his seat as the Archbishop stands and waves at the Knights, who pull the mages to their feet by their restraints. Seteth watches as the three are led off, back to the dungeons where they will be executed. Any hope of learning anything about the Flame Emperor and his nefarious plans for Flayn will vanish as soon as the blade separates their heads from their shoulders.

Would they send other mages to come for Flayn? For the other students at the Academy? How many other children like Monica have been taken away from their families and loved ones all across Fódlan?

Seteth’s hand curls into a fist around the hem of his tunic. _Surely this isn’t what the goddess would have wanted. She would do everything she could to stop such things from happening again to other children… to Flayn, one of her very own. How can you care so little about anything but retribution, Rhea?_

“There is no need for explanation,” Rhea states. Seteth’s brow furrows at her words, and he bites his tongue so as to not start another argument.

Aelfric places his palms on the table and leans forward to protest. “Your Grace—”

Seteth feels an odd tightening in his chest. Like something is… out of sorts. _Is the room spinning? Did I forget to eat breakfast?_ He blinks down at his hands folded on the table before shifting them on his lap. _Perhaps it’s just nerves,_ he thinks to himself.

“Aelfric, no matter their reasoning, there is no excuse for such heinous actions,” she cuts him off. “If they have any grace remaining, they will willingly offer their lives as atonement for their crimes.”

A nervous tap on his elbow pulls Seteth back to center. He glances over at Byleth, who leans over and asks him a question in a hushed voice. “Where are they from?” He frowns back at her. _Now is not the time to ask questions._ But he’s met with another tap on his elbow, ever persistent.

“Ask them!” Byleth whispers to him. Her eyes are wide with alarm and intensity that make him feel uneasy again. He doesn’t know why he listens to Byleth. He doesn’t know why he interrupts the Archbishop in a formal Church investigation. But he does.

Seteth clears his throat. “From where do you hail?” he asks simply. Rhea and the three cardinals swivel and turn their attention to him as an eerie quiet falls over the room. He can feel the Archbishop’s scrutinizing gaze like pins and needles on the back of his neck.

“Mateus,” one of the mages mutters finally. The room collectively holds their breath as another beat of silence falls over them—maybe it was shock at Seteth daring to continue the investigation after Rhea’s sentencing, or maybe because this was the first time any of the mages spoke since their capture. In response to such an innocuous question, no less.

Dunstan leans forward in his seat, squinting at the mages’ faces. “Mateus… South of the Gwenhwyvar Mountains?” he asks, mostly to himself. “Aha, _now_ I remember your faces. You all are priests for the Western Church!”

Rhea sits up stiffly in her chair and Siward’s jaw has dropped nearly to the floor. “Not any longer,” the same mage corrects. “We left the faith. We have nothing to do with the Western Church.”

“Your alliance must lie somewhere else, then?” Seteth asks. _We need to know more about the Flame Emperor…_

“Our only allegiance is to the truth. The doctrine you spread is nothing but lies.” The mage stares back into Seteth’s eyes—an empty stare that is cold and unnerving. Seteth opens his mouth to respond, but Rhea extends a hand to wave silence upon the room.

“Silence! I will not entertain these heretics!” she commands.

Another one of the mages raises his head and chuckles. “You are the _true_ heretic, Rhea,” he counters. “You and the Church have deceived many, committing acts of violence in the name of your false goddess. We have found those who speak only the truth and true justice.”

“You call stealing blood from young children _true justice?_ This is madness,” Aelfric objects.

“We are not the only ones. And it will happen again. You are all so blind to what is right in front of you,” the mage continues, looking back at Seteth. His words are enough to chill Seteth—a threatening promise that it will happen again. _To Flayn… to others..._

“That is enough,” Rhea restates, louder this time.

Seteth ignores her. “Who are your conspirators?”

“I said, enough!”

“Who are they?” He stands abruptly, his fist slamming down onto the table shocking everyone, including himself. He looks back into the cold, icy eyes of the mages with a gaze of burning intensity. “I demand you tell me their names!”

“Seteth!”

Rhea is standing as well, giving him a challenging glare. He grits his teeth and smooths the front of his tunic before slowly retaking his seat. He refuses to look up at her, opting to study the woodgrain of the table. His ears burn—not with embarrassment, but with an anger he hasn’t felt in a long while. 

“This concludes the investigation. The punishment stands. May your souls find peace as they return to the goddess,” Rhea addresses the mages. The Knights tug the prisoners to their feet by their shackles. As they are being led back to the dungeons for their sentenced execution, one of the mages jerks back on their chains to face the Archbishop one last time.

“We know you’ve already slaughtered many of our fellow brethren like this,” he yells out as he struggles against the Knight who tightens their grip on his chains. “We’ve heard much about you, Rhea. The goddess would _never_ forgive you.”

Rhea presses her lips into a thin line. “Please, remove these poor, lost souls from my sight.”

Seteth and Rhea have gotten into many arguments—especially concerning the goddess. And while he thought for a long while that their disagreements stem from the fact that they just simply remember different bits and pieces of their mother… _What if what they remember isn’t really the truth? After centuries, could they really claim their memories were perfect? It has been so long since then… does either of them truly know the goddess anymore? As she was… what she would have wanted?_

_Would she forgive them?_

  
  
  
  


* * *

Byleth can no longer offer Seteth any good excuses for cancelling her classes—one week was enough. And a _long_ week it had been—after the rescue of Flayn and Annette, it was as if time accelerated. So much had happened that Byleth barely had time to recover from using so many divine pulses—she doesn’t remember them being so draining in her previous life. She finds herself so physically exhausted that she can barely get through one of her seminars, much less take the time to process this week’s revelations: the Death Knight in Abyss, Ferdinand’s confrontation, the self-proclaimed humble monk Aelfric who is actually a cardinal who knew _both_ her mother and father, the interrogation of the dark mages—

She looks up from her lectern and catches the piercing blue gaze of Dimitri. His eyes linger on her for a moment before falling back down to his book. Byleth’s cheeks warm as she directs the class to move onto the next chapter.

—and the matter of the prince. _Both_ matters, of course. The promise made to Yuri that she’d recruit him to aid Abyss… and what she and Dimitri had shared in the library. Byleth still feels badly about how they parted ways that day. There were so many things that she wanted to say; many things that would be wise _not_ to say.

And instead of saying or not saying them, Byleth keeps herself busy with resuming her lectures, training the Black Eagles for the upcoming house battle, and fighting mercenaries likely in employ of the Flame Emperor in Abyss to distract her from Ferdinand hating her, Felix being annoyed at her, and the anger that bubbles up inside her each and every time she looks at Monica.

She settles for stolen glances between her and Dimitri as a small semblance of normalcy, a beacon of hope, maybe, or a reminder of what she has come back this far to defend. As much as memories of the last few months they spent together in her past life continue to motivate her to help him and help _everyone_ avoid the bitterness of war… they also cause her to wonder if that darkness inside of Dimitri had been there all along... then and even now. _Am I enough to stop it?_

At the beginning of one of her tactics seminars, Dimitri stops by the front of the classroom as Byleth sketches out battalion formations on the chalkboard.

“Can I speak to you after class?” he asks her.

Byleth looks up and notices that he’s looking at the chalkboard instead of her. “Yes, there's something I need to talk to you about, too,” she replies, keeping her tone neutral. He nods and excuses himself, polite as ever, before taking his seat in the middle of the room.

After the monastery bells ring, signalling the end of the hour, the students pack up their books and notes and begin leaving. Byleth lingers at the lectern, deliberately taking longer to gather her own things. She glances up and sees the last few students file out of the classroom, leaving only Dimitri behind. He slings his bag over his shoulder and walks through the aisle between the rows of tables toward her.

“I wanted to talk to you sooner,” he begins, clearing his throat, “but I've been thinking a lot about what to say to you… about the library…” Dimitri pauses and shifts his weight, looking far from confident. Byleth sets down the stack of parchment in her hands, giving him her full attention. He is obviously nervous, but so is she.

“And... that I have your blanket and pillow still…” he trails off, then scrunches up his face and makes a doleful sound. “I'm so sorry Professor, I am making this awkward.”

Byleth heart breaks at how crestfallen he looks. Her regret grows for not having this conversation sooner. “Dimitri… please, don't apologize,” she murmurs softly. “It is not awkward, I promise. Just... tell me what's on your mind.”

“I will try, Professor.”

“Byleth,” she corrects him. “You can call me Byleth when it's just us.”

He nods slowly, his gaze finally meeting hers. For an impossibly long moment, she studies the cerulean of Dimitri’s eyes and briefly wonders how something so bright could mask such dark depths of sadness.

“Right. Byleth…” he speaks her name so intentionally, as if to become acquainted for how it sounds when it leaves his lips. “I… I've been thinking. About us. About _you._ You're the only one I can be myself around. I feel... at peace with you.”

Dimitri laughs and shakes his head. “Perhaps it's silly of me to feel this way. What you said to me that one night… that I’m someone you care about,” he whispers the last part. Byleth stops breathing then, like she is childishly afraid to make a noise or move or _anything_ to interrupt him.

“Could you actually mean that?”

She freezes, out of surprise more than anything. If her heart could beat, it would be racing. Part of Byleth wants to use a pulse right here and now to verify that she heard him correctly. Which, her entire reaction—standing there saying nothing, _she’s_ the one who’s really and truly making this awkward—is absolutely _ridiculous_ . Though it had unfolded differently last time, she has already confessed her feelings for him—how can this be difficult for her? She has loved the man standing before her for _so_ painfully long that it is utterly stupid of her to be so speechless when she could sing her affections from the rooftops of every village from Garreg Mach to Goneril and back again given the opportunity.

“Yes,” she manages.

Dimitri blinks at her for a second with a rather blank expression. There’s a sinking feeling in Byleth’s stomach until he cracks a smile with a nervous laugh that comes out more like a shaky breath. “You do?” he asks.

She nods, pursing her lips together. Dimitri laughs again, but more genuine this time; he cards a hand through his hair. Byleth can’t help the smile that tugs on the corners of her mouth as she takes a step closer to him. Like that afternoon in the training grounds moons ago, and a hundred other times before that in another life, she reaches for his hand. Byleth threads her fingers between his, the metal of his gauntlets feel cool on her skin.

He looks down at her so reverently that it makes her want to cry tears of happiness. Dimitri leans into her touch and smiles again so beautifully. He tilts his head and moves in close to her; she can feel stray pieces of his hair tickling her forehead and the heat emanating from his flushed cheeks—

“Hey, Professor!”

Dimitri takes a step back from Byleth, his hand pulling away from hers to curl around the strap of his book bag. She takes a deep, measured breath to steady herself; leaning to the side, Byleth looks over the prince’s shoulder at Caspar walking into the center of the classroom.

“Could you help me out at the training grounds?”

Byleth’s eyes flicker briefly to Dimitri’s before she answers. She tries her best to apologize through a wordless glance, but the disappointment was clear in his eyes. He brings a fist to his mouth and clears his throat. She looks away, pretending to study the wood grain on a tabletop at the front of the classroom—she knows that fake cough well enough. Well enough to know that it means that he will excuse himself and not wait around for her afterward, as her attention is stolen away from him yet again.

_Just like at the pier. Just like at the library. And after the ball. And during the Battle for Garreg Mach. And when you needed soldiers._

“I should really be heading to my next class,” Dimitri says simply. “Have a good day, Professor.”

Her eyes follow the fluttering of his blue cape as he turns and walks away. Byleth is only half listening to Caspar’s request, as she’s more focused on stopping her lip from trembling and tears of frustration from burning at the corner of her eyes.

  
  
  


* * *

“Hey, Ferdie.” 

He looks up from the cup of tea warm between his palms. Dorothea stands with her own cup of tea. He avoids looking at her face for more than a fleeting second, instead he studies the cream china in her hands—a cup with delicately painted emerald leaves amongst crimson roses, the burnished gold band around the lip beginning to fade and chip.

“Would you mind if I joined you?”

“No, no,” Ferdinand stutters. “I do not mind. Though I have not any scones for you today... I hope that is alright.”

Normally he would rise and pull out her chair for her, careful to make sure her hair doesn’t snag on the wrought iron back. But he feels stuck to his seat as she slides into hers across from him. 

“It’s fine, I just ate not long ago. Mercie and I went to the village for the most delicious lunch today—this adorable place was serving these little fish pies,” Dorothea explains. She holds up her hands up in a circle to illustrate the size of the hand pies. “The smell alone was heavenly, but get this—they put _fruit_ into the pie filling! It sounds strange, but it was the best thing I think I’d ever eaten. Even _Lin_ would’ve enjoyed it, and you know he’s the pickiest eater.”

“It sounds like you enjoyed yourself.”

“I did,” she affirms, taking a sip from her cup. “We should go—I think you would love it.”

Ferdinand nods. He hasn’t had much of an appetite as of late, so talk of pies didn’t quite interest him. It isn’t lost on him how unenthusiastic he is in general, though. Dorothea has this way about her that lights up any room she enters; she can make even the most mundane topics absolutely riveting. He’s always been drawn to that about her; and despite her ever insisting that she dislikes him, she welcomes him in every time. But her enchanting charisma isn’t enough to jostle him out of his own head today—even when she’s sitting right in front of him with an outstretched hand.

“Ferdie, are you feeling alright?”

He lifts his gaze to meet hers—her smile is turned downward in a thoughtful look. “I am fine, my apologies,” he says quickly, forcing himself to smile weakly. She sighs and her frown deepens, much to his dismay.

“Come now. There’s obviously something bothering you. I’ve never seen you have tea alone, for starters,” she points out, motioning to his cup of Southern Fruit Blend. “And your cup is getting cold by now, I’m sure.”

Ferdinand looks down at his tea for a moment and takes a sip of the now tepid liquid. _Ah, you are very right._ Along with her hot-and-cold affection for him, Dorothea is always quick to challenge him—not unlike right now. While he’s usually up for the challenge, he just doesn’t have the energy for it today.

“I have just had a lot on my mind lately,” he says, opting to brush it off. “I am very busy with my studies, and not to mention training for the Battle of the—”

“Ferdie, there’s no way you’re busy with your studies,” she cuts him off. “We’re in nearly all of the same classes, and they are all focusing on preparing for the house battle—trainings, mind you, that I haven’t seen you attend _once_ this past week. Professor Hanneman hasn’t been assigning homework because Hubert and Annie were out for a few days. And Professor Byleth hasn't held a class in almost a week now.”

His hands tighten around the ceramic cup, causing it to scrape against the saucer. Not at being called out on his white lie, but at the mention of Professor Byleth. Ferdinand once admired the Professor for her sheer talent and skill on the battlefield… But now, he doesn’t know what to think of her anymore. He doubted her tales of her divine power, until she could steal the words out of his mouth as blood dripped down her nose. Until he remembered all of their previous missions—it wasn’t just her strategical skill alone that allowed them to prevail all those times.

But accepting the validity of her divine powers only frustrates him further, especially after she admitted knowing that Edelgard was the Flame Emperor this entire time. The Professor told him that he had walked out of her room the other day to notify Lady Rhea of Edelgard’s treachery… more than once, at that. He was so angry at her for allowing Edelgard to continue on—for believing in the possibility of her goodness! After all that she’s told him… after all that he’s seen… that all of the students have seen… how could she believe there’s any chance at her redemption?

She had been so sure, though. Blood dripping down her chin and onto her hands as she clasped them around his—begging him not to walk out that door, begging him to give her more time. She had been sure enough to use her powers even though they caused her pain—all so that he could listen and understand and _believe._ Admittedly, he is still struggling with all of that.

But, Ferdinand has no choice but to admit that Byleth has knowledge of the future due to her powers. Which doesn’t sit well with him given what she’s told him about what has been and what is to come with his family. With their title and lands. With his father...

“I have been out in the stables, you know,” Dorothea informs him. “Taking care of Capilet. I mean, Marianne had to teach me how to saddle her so I could take her out for some exercise. I know how to do stable duties, but silly old me never learned how to ride a horse…”

He finds himself speechless, staring at her as she traces the rim of her teacup with her finger as she laughs at herself in that self-deprecating way that he never understood why others find so charming when it only causes his chest to bristle with compunction. He lowers his eyes, the shame welling up in the back of his throat as he struggles to speak.

“Dorothea, I do not know what to say…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she says quickly. She sighs, mostly at herself and her tone, he thinks, because she’s gentler and softer when she continues. “I just worry about you, okay? It isn’t like you to not be out at the stables at the crack of dawn. That’s when I knew something was… off.”

Ferdinand decides to not acknowledge her worries or the fact that she is absolutely right about something being amiss. _It will make less for her to worry for,_ he thinks. “I cannot believe I forgot about her. Thank you so much. I appreciate you taking care of her. I mean that sincerely,” he says, making a mental note to thank Marianne as well when he sees her next.

“I know you do—and it is not a problem,” Dorothea assures him. With another sigh, she reaches across the table and pulls his hand away from his teacup, holding it in her own. “Look, I know that what happened to Flayn and Annette was jarring for all of us. Just know that you aren’t alone in processing all of that, Ferdie.”

His heart is heavy, his mind swimming with worries and fears and what-ifs… How horribly inconvenient that the world is about to collapse around him, because it’s distracting him from his hand in hers. Ferdinand finds himself speechless again.

“Yes. I just...”

“Have a lot on your mind?” She asks him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “If you ever want to talk about it, I am here to listen.”

“Dorothea, I…”

_I want to transfer houses. Though how little that would do... I know that our house leader and the Imperial princess is secretly waging a rebellion against the Church and the rest of Fódlan as the Flame Emperor. I stand in awe at the powerful gifts of the Professor, yet a small part of me is... afraid. I am more afraid now than I was in Magdred or in Mausoleum or at Conand Tower, I think._

_The Professor has lived to see our future; she says that our allies and friends will turn their blades against each other; she says that my father will be betrayed by the Empire that he has sacrificed so much for. Is he_ truly _that terrible of a man? What could he have done to warrant his arrest and imprisonment, my family stripped of our rightful land and titles?_

_I want to believe her claims are far from the truth… but after what I have seen and what she has said… is there any room for doubt anymore? How can Edelgard’s violent and bloody path possibly be defensible? Am I a fool for not wanting to believe that a war-mongerer is worthy of salvation?_

_Perhaps I_ am _the fool… for thinking that you or I or anyone but the Professor could have any say in the matter._

“Thank you.”

Dorothea smiles at him. “No problem. Not all of us can be Monica and be all sunshine and daisies all the time. It’s inspiring to see her so positive after such a horrible situation… the poor girl,” she laments, pulling her hand back from his to prop up her chin. “It’s probably her way of coping. Can you imagine being kidnapped for an entire year?”

“I cannot,” Ferdinand shakes his head. He swallows and takes a measured breath, knowing that Monica has long since been deceased from the Professor. “I knew Monica growing up—when my father would travel to Ochs territory for cabinet duties, I often would accompany him. I would agree that her disposition has changed from what I remember.”

“Going through something that traumatic changes a person.”

Ferdinand nods in agreement. “Say, you are sharing your quarters with her, yes?”

“Yes, and I never thought that a _noble_ wouldn’t mind being roommates with a commoner like me. But stranger things have happened lately, I guess,” Dorothea laughs, brushing a lock of her chestnut hair behind her shoulder. “Though sometimes I think that I’m sharing my room with Edie, too, with how much time she spends with Monica!”

He stiffens at the mention of Edelgard. And while Dorothea might be happy to share quarters with Monica, the idea of a murdering shape-shifting creature taking up residence in the same shared space doesn’t sit well with Ferdinand.

“Time spent doing what?”

“Oh, no need to be so serious, Ferdie,” she cajoles him. “It’s not like they’re sneaking out of the monastery at night to cause trouble. Edie’s always helping Monica catch up on her studies. It’s quite sweet of her, really.”

“I see,” he replies simply. “That is noble of her.”

_No, it can never be noble to aid and abet Sir Jeralt’s murderer._

“Well, look at that—you and Edie have more in common than you thought!” Dorothea leans back in her chair and covers her mouth as she giggles. Ferdinand’s gaze falls back to the tea, now lukewarm, in his cup. “Now, if only you two can put an end to your squabbles in class. Speaking of… we have class with Manuela now. We best be on our way.”

She finishes the last sip of her tea, then rises from the table and grabs the small kettle and napkin that Ferdinand had brought outside. He stands quickly, mumbling apologies and swooping in to gather his items before she troubles herself anymore.

“Dorothea, please allow me,” he insists. “I did not even have your favorite tea to offer you—not cleaning up would make me a terrible host.”

“Oh _hush_ now, I am perfectly capable of helping,” she informs him, plucking his cup and saucer away with a wink for good measure. “And that just means that next time you’ll have to bring the right tea—preferably with those scones of yours.”

  
  
  


* * *

“You say you captured the very bandits you're after, but then can’t get a word out of them? And they call you ‘boss?’” Hubert sneers in that venomous way that he does. Linhardt sighs; he’d much rather have his head buried in a book for his research, or laying on a pillow would be quite nice. Not here while everyone gets all worked up about the ever-elusive band of the Flame Emperor’s merry men.

“Settle, Hubert. They need not confess to anything for us to know that they are after something here in Abyss,” Constance rebukes him with a wag of her finger.

“Something other than junk? I don’t get it,” Hapi deadpans. She sits atop a large crate with her feet propped up casually on a barrel. “What is there to find in these dingy tunnels, anyway?”

Linhardt couldn’t care less about these skirmishes with these mercenaries. Of course, he wishes the people of Abyss to be safe, but he surely can’t be the only one to notice that the mercenaries aren’t bothering any of the residents. If such a thing as the underground library exists in Abyss, there has to be other secrets far more valuable than the knowledge held in those dusty books.

While the monthly missions from the Church make his stomach turn at the blood and gore of battle, Linhardt isn’t opposed to a good old fashioned treasure hunt. It sure beats apprehending criminals, killing civilians, and fighting the Church’s petty political squabbles as a bunch of children. In fact, it would be a great change of pace; he appreciates a good puzzle, and deciphering what ‘junk’ the Flame Emperor’s mercenaries are after certainly fits the bill.

Plus, the sooner they find it, the sooner they could stop ending up in skirmishes down here anyway. Linhardt will heal his friends, that goes without saying. But watching Hubert pitifully wobble around while blasting dark magic to fulfill whatever angry vendetta he has against the Flame Emperor’s lackeys… or seeing Hilda pull her axe out of someone’s abdomen as their entrails fall out onto the ground in front of them, then giggle and laugh with Claude afterward like nothing happened…

He’d be lying if he said that didn’t keep him up at night.

“Aelfric, was it?” Linhardt chimes in, waving a hand at the reserved monk. “Looks like this is ringing a bell for you.”

He hums in response, worrying his bottom lip with a fist. “Well, something does come to mind, but the notion is preposterous at best,” Aelfric frets.

“Never discount a wild hunch. Sometimes they're closer to the truth than you'd think,” Claude adds. The others murmur and nod their heads, voicing their agreement, Linhardt included.

Aelfric sighs. “As you wish, though again, it is quite far-fetched,” he concedes. “You see, there is a longstanding legend here. It is said that deep underground, below even Abyss, there is a place called the Chasm of the Bound wherein lies the Chalice of Beginnings.”

“Hey,” a voice whispers to him, accompanying a nudge to his side. Linhardt glances over and sees the unmistakable scowl of Felix over his left shoulder. “The Chalice of Beginnings… have you heard of that before?”

“No, I haven’t,” Linhardt whispers back, keeping his head looking forward. “But chances are it's some kind of sacred artifact belonging to the Church.”

Felix moves to stand beside him, folding his arms across his chest as they listen in on the rest of Aelfric’s tale. He tilts his chin back in an affirmative nod. “Think you can find something in that library down here about it?”

“I can try.”

“I once happened upon an old document that mentioned a ritual called the Rite of Rising,” Aelfric continues. “The text was incomplete, so I was unable to achieve a full understanding of the topic. I cannot even guarantee the authenticity of what I read. But it stated that the Chalice of Beginnings is a sacred object crafted by order of Saint Seiros herself. Saint Seiros apparently used the artifact to carry out the Rite of Rising, along with the Four Apostles.”

Linhardt hums and shuffles his feet. It’s like there’s something stirring in the back of his mind, but he’s unable to push it forward enough to realize what it is he’s trying to remember, and it’s _maddening._ “Four Apostles… Four Apostles…” he mumbles under his breath.

Felix nudges him again. “If you know something, speak up,” he hisses.

Linhardt elbows him back to both of their surprise, earning another one of the swordsman’s nasty expressions. _Fine, I will speak up._ “I vaguely remember reading about them,” Linhardt prefaces a little more loudly than he intended. He clears his throat before continuing. “But their moniker is about all anyone knows. Few alive even know their names, and some might even call them nothing but legend with how little record of them remain. But, these apostles supposedly assisted the Four Saints with their holy work.”

“Yes, you are correct,” Aelfric affirms with a nod. “In fact, in that document, they too were referred to as Saints.”

“Saints? The Church of Serios only venerated Four Saints. Are we really supposed to believe a _heretical_ document?” Hubert quips, clearing trying to provoke the monk. It doesn’t cause Aelfric to react, though, as he only smiles pleasantly back before answering.

“Well, Hubert, it is also believed that Saint Seiros attempted to perform a resurrection using the chalice. However, the ritual failed. So the Four Apostles bound the chalice so that it would never fall into a mortal's hands.”

Constance lights up and presses her palms together excitedly. “Ah, yes, the chalice of legend! My father mentioned it to me a very long time ago. A secret treasure of the Church... A chalice powerful enough to resurrect the dead... Exhilarating, no?” She looks up at Hubert, though Linhardt finds it hard to believe she was expecting a pleasant reaction out of the man—he looks stiff as a board and paler than he usually is.

“Though we have little to go on except a legend that only three people can recall bits and pieces of,” Hubert scoffs, bringing his gloved hand to his temple with annoyance. “And with miles of tunnels and mercenaries thieving about every night, we need to gather more tangible information about this so-called ‘Chasm of the Bound’ if we are to have any luck finding this chalice if it _really_ exists.”

“I understand your point, Hubert. And I wholeheartedly agree. I pledge that I will do all I can to track down more clues within the monastery,” Aelfric vows. He doesn’t seem bothered by Hubert’s eye roll at him afterwards. As the group turns their attention back to the maps of the tunnels to strategize tonight’s scouting, Felix pulls Linhardt aside.

“And we’re heading straight for that library,” he whispers, tugging him along. “C’mon.”

Linhardt obliges, following Felix. He struggles to keep up with his fast pace, nearly out of breath as he tries to match it. _Does someone really have to walk that fast? Perhaps I should really spend more time at the training grounds..._

“Where are y’all headed?”

Linhardt and Felix look over and see that Claude is marching alongside them, a sly grin on his face. Felix grumbles and swears under his breath.

“The library,” Linhardt breathes. “The Four Apostles… Gah, this is killing me! I’m on the verge of remembering something. I can’t shake the feeling that one of their names is…”

He trips over his own feet when he remembers it. When he stumbles, Linhardt reaches out and grabs onto Claude’s arm to keep himself upright. This catches him off guard, but he helps the mage straighten up. Linhardt tries to speak as he struggles to catch his breath.

“Saint Noa,” he manages. “Saint Noa. Claude, do you remember that book? _The Epistles of Macuil?”_

“Yeah, yeah,” Claude says. “The book with the love letters to Noa? Do you think she could be of those Four Apostles?”

Linhardt nods as the three of them turn the corner into the library. “Could be. You’re the one who told me she’s called a saint. Help me look for it, will you?” He and Claude begin digging through books on opposite sides of the room. After several moments of looking, Linhardt remembers that Felix is there with them.

“Hey, Felix—we’re looking for a book about this size,” he describes, holding up his hands to approximate the dimensions of the book, “with a brown cover… called _The Epistles of Macuil.”_

The swordsman huffs and paces over to one of the bookcases. He starts thumbing through the tomes until he breaks the silence with a disgruntled sigh. “Okay, so _all_ of the books are that size with a brown cover,” Felix huffs, motioning to the wall of brown leather spines before him.

“I gave you the title, didn’t I?” Linhardt reminds him, not even bothering to smooth over his tone. “You asked if I knew anything, and I told you what I know. Between the three of us, we’re bound to—”

His hand stops on a familiar book and he forgets what he’s in the middle of saying. Linhardt runs his fingers over the embossed title on the spine and furrows his brow. Felix walks over to him and stands with his arms folded. “Well, did you find it?” he asks.

Linhardt shakes his head. It’s not The Epistles of Macuil, no. It’s a different text that the librarian Tomas gave him—a collection of the Church of Seiros’ religious iconography, full of hand painted illustrations and sketches of statues and architecture all across Fódlan. He pulls out the book and immediately flips through the pages, noticing some have been torn out—recently, at that. The pages are so yellowed and worn that it’s obvious that the light cream color of the torn edges haven’t yet been exposed to hundreds of years of oxygen and human touch.

Flipping to the back cover of the book, his suspicions are confirmed.

 _5 Harpstring Moon, 1180  
_ _Seteth_

Linhardt can’t help but laugh exasperatedly. So the underground library is where the archbishop’s advisor is storing all of the forbidden texts, including this one that he took from him many moons ago. _Could Tomas know that Seteth is the one keeping these books down here? And why is he bothering to keep them at all?_  
  
  
  


* * *

Byleth tugs her cloak tighter around her shoulders. It’s chillier at night now as the warm days have all but disappeared with the waxing Wyvern Moon. She slips up the stairs to the second floor of the dormitory unnoticed by monks or Knights or a wandering student’s eye.

She feels oddly nostalgic when she passes by Felix’s door, knocking softly on the one next to it instead. Though it’s less of a comforting feeling and more of an anxious, desperate panic coursing through her. Especially when she doesn’t hear even the slightest stirring on the other side of the door. Byleth knocks again, _just one more time,_ she tells herself.

She nearly bites her tongue when the door finally swings open. Dimitri just stares at her a moment before stepping aside and allowing her to enter. She steps into the center of his room and fiddles with the hem on her cloak as he quietly shuts his door behind him. When he turns around to face her, she opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out.

After their exchange was cut short this afternoon, Byleth vowed to never leave words left unsaid to Dimitri again. She fretted all evening and was sleepless all night over everything she wanted to say to him, over all the ways she would tell and show him just how sorry she is. But any of the eloquent words she had thought up are nowhere to be found.

“Professor… is everything okay?” Dimitri asks into the darkness between them.

She shakes her head. The tears begin to prickle at the corners of her eyes once more as she swallows a lump in her throat.

“I… I feel bad that we couldn't finish our conversation earlier,” she whispers. It is the truth, though stated rather simply and with a wavering voice dancing on the edge of a sob. She doesn’t want their dialogue to have ended in that classroom earlier this afternoon. That’s why she finds herself here, knocking on the prince’s door in the middle of the night.

Dimitri takes a step closer to her, reaching out tentatively to rest a gentle, reassuring hand on the side of her arm. “It is fine. It would’ve been selfish of me to take all of your attention. The classroom probably wasn't the best place for me to discuss… _this,”_ he murmurs.

 _This,_ she thinks. _Us._

“I'm glad we could talk about it, though,” she says. _Let’s finish talking about it, now that we’re here. Please, say something—_ anything, _Dimitri,_ she means.

Byleth looks up at the prince— _really_ and truly looks at him. She regards how the moonlight filtering in through his window illuminates parts of his face while casting shadow patterns across his brow and chin. The way its lucent glow reflects off the blonde of his lashes and the dampness that collects at his collarbone no matter the season. His eyes remind her of the Blue Sea Star—are they shimmering?

“That night…” he trails off, dropping his hand from her arm. “I thought a lot about what you said. That night where we stayed up talking here.”

Byleth hums in lieu of a question as she steps forward just enough to thread their fingers together. His palms are warm against hers as she relishes the feel of his skin on hers—no gloves, no gauntlets.

“You are someone I care about, too,” he whispers softly against her cheek.

Dimitri presses his lips gently against the corner of Byleth’s mouth, and she leans in slightly to welcome his touch. When her eyes flutter open, his are still closed. She tilts her head to slide her lips against the fullness of his mouth, and this time, her hands unwind from his to lightly run up the skin of his forearms. Byleth’s fingertips delicately trace the patterns of scar tissue there, and she can feel him shiver. When she pulls away, Dimitri chases her mouth back for just the briefest of moments, his lips pink and wanting.

The way he looks down at her makes Byleth’s chest ache with a longing that is so powerful and teetering on the edge of painful... it’s so foreign to her that she curls her fingers around the fabric of his nightshirt sleeves—afraid to feel something so intensely, afraid to let go of the man before her.

Dimitri closes the gap between them, leaning in and tilting his head to capture her lips again. When he does, the tension between them snaps—whatever had bridled their self-restraint up until then vanishing in an instant.

Byleth’s hands travel to the back of his head, threading her fingers between strands of his golden hair, and Dimitri’s kiss is longer than any he had ever given her before. They part only for air before rejoining again, his breath warm as it fans across her face. She pulls his head down to meet her, to be _nearer_ to her—the closest could ever be close enough. 

Soon it’s her mouth and tongue on the damp skin of his neck and collarbone, pressing a myriad of kisses as his hands cling to her sides and waist.

“Byleth…”

She presses her forehead into his shoulder and lets her arms slide down to wrap around his torso, holding herself flush against him. Her breaths slowly even out, falling into perfect time with his. Byleth listens to his heart drum against his chest—a sound that she has always found solace in. It had been so long since she had shared a moment like this with him—everything is too much and not enough at once.

One of Dimitri’s hands lays flat against the small of her back while the other tangles up into her hair as his kisses flutter against her temple between his whispers of her name like a prayer. _Everything has been worth it for this moment alone,_ Byleth thinks fleetingly. Dimitri yawns and hugs her tighter to him.

“You're tired,” she mumbles into his shoulder. As much as it pains her to do so, she pulls back enough to look up at him. “I should probably go.”

_I really don’t want to, though._

“Oh,” he breathes as he reluctantly releases her from his arms. The look in his eyes and the tone of his voice are enough to tell Byleth what he really means— _I know, I don’t want you to, either._

He wipes his mouth with the back of his knuckles, and Byleth flushes at the sight. Dimitri runs a hand through his hair and scratches lightly at his scalp as he walks over the cabinets under his window. “You probably need this,” he says, picking up her blanket which he neatly folded, her pillow resting on top. “You need to get some sleep, too. And… didn't you need to talk to me about something?”

Byleth accepts her blanket and pillow from him, their hands lingering a few seconds longer than necessary when they brush against each other during the exchange.

“Ah, yes. I was hoping you could help me and some of the other students to scout out an artifact. We could use you in case we run into any rogues or mercenaries,” she explains. Byleth scoffs and looks at the floor. _This is so stupid of me to ask, now,_ she thinks. “I know you don't have all the details, and I’m not expecting you to make a decision right now... Just sleep on it, and we can talk more about it another time, okay?”

Dimitri shakes his head, and Byleth’s stomach drops for a second. “No need to sleep on it; of course I'll help you,” he tells her, and she releases a sigh of relief. “You can share the details with me over lunch tomorrow afternoon?”

“I'd like that,” she smiles, hugging her pillow and blanket to her chest. She turns to move toward the door to let herself out. “Goodnight, Dimitri.”

“Byleth, wait.”

She stops and looks over her shoulder at him.Though his profile is shadowed as the moonshine illuminates him from behind, an aura of hazy silver light surrounds him… It’s almost angelic, like a poignant tableau from a holy painting or stained glass.

“Can we see each other again? Like this?” he asks, his voice earnest as ever.

Byleth nods. He breathes a sigh, a beautiful smile spreading across his face. That maddening ache returns to her chest when she walks away back to her quarters. When she slips into her bed, she cocoons herself snugly in the blanket he returned to her. It smells faintly like him—like chamomile tea and leather and sweat. The warmth cradles her, and Byleth imagines for a moment that it’s him holding her as she drifts into sleep.

  
  
  


* * *

The wind howls and the trees surrounding seem to whisper secrets to each other. Shivers of rain cascade down, cold and slick on Byleth’s skin and clothes. Her cloak is already soaked through and sticking uncomfortably to her arms. The chill of autumn nights and stormy winds begin to cut down to her bone.

The last light of the dying sunset is nothing but a faint ochre glow that peeks out from behind blackened clouds on the horizon, obscured by the catkins that shudder in the wind. Rumbling thunder urges Byleth to walk faster up the cobblestone path, though the downpour of rain is making such a thing difficult; the soles of her boots keep slipping on the wet stones every few steps.

Wiping the rainwater that is collecting at her brow, she finally sees the facade of porch columns faintly in the distance. The hair at the back of her neck stands on end when she thinks she hears a scream in the distance, her feet faltering. Was it a scream, or was it merely the wind? Byleth resolves herself to believe the latter and tugs her collar tighter around her.

As she draws nearer to the house, the cobblestone beneath her boots grows more slippery. The rain was coming down harder now, pooling atop the paving. She treads carefully after nearly falling twice.

Squinting in the dusk, she can see the covered porch of the grand house and the broad shuttered windows. Byleth also thinks she can make out a small figure sitting upon the steps. It appears to be a small child, perched on the stoop with rain-soaked sleeves wrapped around themselves. She calls out to them—that they should get under cover of the porch and out of the rain—but they don’t seem to react. It’s likely they cannot hear her over the din of the storm and wind.

A shock of lightning splits the sky, the clap of thunder following behind so suddenly that it feels like it shakes the ground beneath Byleth’s feet. Startled, she loses her footing on the slick cobblestone and falls forward, catching herself with her hands. Bits of gravel and dirt dig into the flesh of her palms.

In the moment she takes to catch her breath, Byleth is quickly disconcerted at the contrast between the streams of cold rain dripping down her air and face and the warm, sticky dampness under her fingertips. She moves to rest on her knees, turning over her hands to look at the vermillion staining her skin.

Her breath catches in her throat as she scrambles to her feet. Another crack of lightning illuminates the scene for just a flash, but long enough for Byleth to see the stone path is flowing not with rainwater, but with a heavy stream of what appears to be blood. She gasps and desperately wipes her hands on the fabric of her cloak.

_“Professor.”_

Byleth stumbles backward at the voice, keeping her balance just enough so as not to fall again. She reaches for the Sword, but realizes that she’s carrying no weapon on her hip—not even a dagger. Her hands curl into fists defensively, her stomach turning at the sticky feeling of the blood already beginning to coagulate—though Byleth quickly lowers them at the sight of snowy hair and razor-edged lavender eyes.

“E-Edelgard…” she whispers into the storm.

The princess stands beside Byleth unmoving, arms folded demurely over her middle. Her white hair is plastered to the side of her face by the rain, her profile looking like that of a marble statue. She looks ahead to the estate many yards ahead of them still, and Byleth follows her gaze. The child is still sitting on the stoop, but crimson seeps from beneath their seat, streaming down each step and onto the cobblestone.

“The river of blood keeps growing,” Edelgard muses aloud. She reaches for Byleth’s trembling hands, her slender fingers like ice as she carefully turns them over. “The stains on your hands, Professor… can they ever be scrubbed clean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised this chapter like 2 weeks ago because I literally had only about 2k words left to write... BUT exciting developments have been underfoot! I finally had a breakthrough with my job hunt--at my dream company, no less! So I was super busy preparing for multiple rounds of interviews and presentations, but I had my final interviews on Wednesday and I feel really great about them! Ahh I just look back to how lost and hopeless I felt a few weeks ago on the career front, and I'm so thankful that things are headed in the right direction finally. I really hope this opportunity pans out--maybe by my next chapter update, I'll have even better news to share!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all are safe and healthy! Thank you so so much for all the comments and kudos on this fic. I love to hear your thoughts--it really makes my day~ ヽ(*・ω・)ﾉ
> 
> And hey, did you know I made a playlist for this fic? [Click here to give it a listen!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3MUs4LXhnCF6yocJaqXOFG)


	9. Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude is caught sneaking out. Ferdinand embarks on a journey home... and back in time. Hilda is accidentally good at magic? Constance receives a favor. Byleth gets a brief introduction to hermeneutics.
> 
> "You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave. Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears do scald like molten lead.”  
> - _King Lear, 4.7.43-46_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to post this chapter on the 1 year anniversary of _Three Houses_ ' release-- and while a bit late in some time zones, technically I snuck it in there in time :)
> 
> Thanks for all of your lovely comments, feedback, and kudos. I love hearing what you think. Y'all truly make my day!

Claude groans and clutches his cup of ale. He takes a swig as he watches Sylvain throw down his cards in frustration as Dorothea wins yet another hand. The songstress pulls in the pot of silver coins to add to her growing collection of bullions from the evening. While getting out of Garreg Mach to drink, dance, and gamble with his friends down at the village pub is a welcomed respite from the grind of classes and the impossible tangle of mysteries surrounding the monastery as of late…

…losing his entire pocket to Dorothea is certainly not what he planned for this evening. But with a drink in his hand and good company, how could Claude really complain? After all, complaining is more of Hilda's thing.

“Will _one_ of you stop playing that stupid game long enough to get me another drink?” she whines, her delicately manicured fingers waving her empty cup before them to illustrate her point. Claude and the others chuckle at her as he deals another hand, but Hilda slumps forward dramatically onto the table, her pink bangs crumpling as she buries her face into folded arms. “Ugh, if _Ferdie_ were here, he’d get me a drink, _I’ll have you know.”_

It’s impossible for Claude to not look up at Dorothea, who sits across from him perched on the edge of her stool. He notices how her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the cards in her hand… how her back straightens at Hilda’s gushing about Ferdinand. While she’s never admitted anything of the sort to him—and he doubts she _ever_ would, given how stubborn she can be about that sort of thing—Claude is convinced there’s no way that Dorothea _doesn’t_ hold some sort of fondness for the guy.

Claude and Dorothea are alike in many ways when it comes to finding suitors—mostly because they both reject the notion of finding suitors in the traditional sense. They both prefer a free-spirited romance, if he is to name it anything—shunning titles and status and antiquated courting and choosing to flit around like a butterfly in a flower garden. That way, they only have to judge each flower by the sweetness of the pollen instead of how proud their petals are.

And yet, Dorothea manages to spend all of her free time floating back to the most prideful pompon of the bunch that she loves to openly criticize. Personally Claude’s not sure _what_ she sees in Ferdinand, but that’s beside the point.

Sylvain laughs and tosses two silver pieces into the center of the wooden table. “Why don’t you bring Ferdinand with one of these nights, Dorothea? That way poor Hilda here can get another drink?” he asks, leaning over and pouring some of his mead into Hilda’s empty cup, much to her excitement as she eagerly brings it to her lips.

Sylvain is akin to him and Dorothea, too, Claude supposes. But he figures the Gautier heir is more of a bird that tries to play the role of a butterfly—swooping down to admire the scent, but crashing into the flower bed with indelicate wings. As many women who’ve crossed his path might allege, Sylvain’s better suited to worms than flowers, anyway.

“He’s been a little down lately,” Dorothea replies without missing a beat. She matches Sylvain’s wager, adding in another four silver pieces. Claude looks at his own hand and cringes inwardly, careful not to let these terrible cards affect his neutral expression. _The gods really won’t deal me anything tonight, huh?_ “I’ve been trying to give him space—is that sort of thing familiar to you?”

Sylvain lets her teasing comment roll off his shoulders and flashes her a charming lopsided grin. “I dunno, I think a little rye would help him loosen up. Am I right, Claude?” he asks, nudging his friend for some backup on the issue.

“Now _that’s_ something I’d pay to see,” Claude agrees, looking up to see if that gets any reaction out of Dorothea to add credence to his theory. Much to his chagrin, it doesn’t. He sighs when he looks back down at his own cards, and chooses to fold this hand.

Hilda perks up at clutches at Dorothea’s sleeve. “You should ask him to come out sometime!”

With equal parts grace and enigma, Dorothea smiles pleasantly at Hilda and ruffles the hair on her head with a gentle hand. “Guys, I don’t know what you’re all thinking, but that would quite possibly be the worst idea ever,” she says.

Claude doesn’t disagree with her, in truth. Ferdinand is a little uppity for their circle of friends, and he doubts that someone who’s first priority is being noble would even want to hang out in this pub with sticky tabletops and simple merchants and commoners. But a small part of him does disagree with Dorothea’s stance on the matter. With as much time as that butterfly spends perched on that noble flower— _especially with how obnoxiously orange those petals must be,_ Claude chuckles at the thought—there’s not a chance she would be _completely_ opposed to the idea of Ferdinand drinking with them. At the very least, she would revel at the chance to beat him at cards, no doubt.

“Worse than riding his prized Aegir Saddlebred around? Man, I wish I could get a girl to ride _my_ horse everyday,” Sylvain adds, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Dorothea finally gives Claude the reaction he has been waiting for—she scowls and hits Sylvain’s arm as he tries to plead with her. “I'm kidding, I'm kidding!”

“It's the least I can do to help out a _friend!_ He's been stressing about everything lately… like, he's super concerned about how Monica is doing. And I saw him speaking to Professor Byleth about taking a trip home... I think our last mission really affected him,” Dorothea says, her tone and expression suddenly serious. She doesn’t make eye contact with anyone as she raises Sylvain again, tossing in more coins into the pot.

Hilda sighs, clutching her hands to her chest. “He's so sweet! Ugh, I wish he would be worried about _me_ like that,” she gushes.

“Well, Hilda, _you_ didn't get kidnapped for a year,” Claude corrects her quickly. Partly for the selfish ignorance of her comment, but also because of the flash of hurt he sees reflected in the emerald of Dorothea’s eyes.

Claude can’t quite figure out why she won’t just admit it. There has to be a reason other than Hilda’s silly crush on the guy; it may feel like an awkward situation, but Dorothea isn’t stupid by any stretch of the imagination. She _has_ to see that Hilda’s crush only seems to manifest when she’s drunk or in need of someone to clean and oil her armor—that, and the fact that Hilda crushes on everyone and _anyone_ if it means she can get her way.

“No, no, I get that,” Sylvain tells Dorothea. “It's the same with Felix and Mercedes. Both of them have been off since helping you guys out. Mercie has been really distant, and Felix… well, he doesn't even have time for me anymore. Saints, who knows what he's doing these days.” His face is uncharacteristically somber for a moment, studying the woodgrain of the tabletop like he’s a thousand miles away deep in thought.

He’s right, though. Something _serious_ happened that day. Claude wasn’t there when Professor Byleth and the Black Eagles found Felix and Mercedes in Professor Jeritza’s room. He’s heard all the gossip and hearsay about what was found underground that day—all that’s for certain is that Flayn and Annette were kidnapped and rescued before they were hurt or _worse._

The most popular rumor around the monastery is that Jeritza was the Death Knight. There’s credence to that, given that he left the monastery without a word after Manuela was found stabbed in his quarters. The entrance to the underground chambers was found there as well. But Claude and Hilda both know that the Death Knight hasn’t quite left the monastery just yet after encountering him in Abyss. His thoughts wander to their scouting missions and the mysterious Chalice of Beginnings—and the peculiar coincidence that both Professor Byleth and Felix were first in line to lead their small band to students underground against the Death Knight once more.

“Felix scares me,” Hilda mumbles, resting her head between her hands.

“Haha, me too,” Sylvain laughs, though Claude notices the crinkles of his smile don’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey, man,” he continues, turning to face Claude, “let's get more drinks, yeah?”

He reveals his hand to Dorothea, and once again, her cards best him. Sylvain groans as he rises from the stool and stretches his legs, watching as he loses more of his monthly allowance from the Margrave to the songstress. He swings an arm around Claude’s shoulders and musses the hair on his head as they make their way to the bar.

It’s crowded, and the pair are barely able to squeeze in shoulder-to-shoulder with the other patrons. Thankfully, Sylvain towers over most of the others—Claude included—and easily waves down the bar hand. He laughs and makes a remark about how he'll get drinks for the two of them and Dorothea, because the last thing Hilda needed was another mug of ale. Before Claude can agree, he’s separated from Sylvain by another group of men pushing their way up to the bar.

The group looks worse for wear—likely miners from the hillsides surrounding the monastery, based on the black soot staining the creases of their knuckles. 

“Thought they closed up th’ Throat,” one of them says, loud enough for Claude to hear over the din of the pub. He tenses in response, a flare of irritation running through him. Part of him wants to respond, but he knows better than to act so rashly to those types of comments. Ever since coming to Fodlan, he’s been the subject of whispers and shouts alike based on his appearance. One would think that the heir to the sovereign Duke of the Alliance would garner respect in a world so clearly divided by social class… but of course, that does little to deter even those that know of his title and family name.

All of this is nothing new to Claude, unfortunately. He experienced the same thing back home before coming to Fodlan, both the Almyran royal court and while playing with other children on the streets of Chinvat. He quickly learned that a child born to two nations can never truly belong in either. He also learned that quieting himself, though difficult, was key to avoiding trouble. He presses his lips together and pays the man no mind; he spots Sylvain’s red hair and tries to move over to him.

As Claude pushes his way through the thick of people, one of the men grabs a fistful of his tunic, yanking him backwards. _Turns out silence isn’t enough sometimes._

“Boy,” the man chirps again, “did you hear me?”

Right when Claude is about to regain his balance, he’s pulled _forward_ this time, an iron-tight vise on his forearm nearly dragging him like a ragdoll toward the heckler. The man stinks of tobacco as he sneers down at him. “Fuckin’ Almyran,” he spits at him.

Claude shoves away from the man, breaking his hold. Wiping the droplets from his face with the sleeve of his shirt, he tightens his hands into fists at his sides. _No need for silence now._

“Don’t _fucking_ touch me,” Claude seethes. The heckler and his friends turn on him, quick to shove back; Claude staggers backward into a table, knocking over mugs of whiskey and ale that spill sticky onto the wood floor of the pub. Things are now turning into a scene, as the other patrons are starting to turn their attention to the scuffle.

“Touch me again, _boy,”_ the heckler threatens. He pulls a dagger from his jacket, eliciting gasps from some of the other people at the bar. A sinking feeling settles in Claude’s stomach. _This is why I shouldn’t have said anything._ Claude backs up into the table again—nowhere to go. _Some ale… a few hands of cards… and a stabbing,_ he thinks to himself as he holds up his hands in surrender. _Some fucking night out, huh?_

“Hey!”

A head of chestnut hair pushes through the other patrons and stands in front of Claude, a flash of metallic silver in their hand. He blinks and realizes it’s _Dorothea —_ brow furrowed and eyes dangerous. Sylvain bumps his way through the growing crowd and curls one his hands around Claude’s bicep, pulling him away from the heckler and his buddies.

Dorothea stares them down for a minute, daring them to use a blade on a woman in the middle of this pub. _Incredibly bold of her,_ Claude thinks. _Even so, all roses do have thorns._

“Let’s leave,” she says, her voice icy. She slips her dagger back into the fabric of her dress. Dorothea turns on her heel and follows behind her friends as they grab Hilda off the barstool. When they push open the pub doors and step outside, the autumn night air is cool on their cheeks, still warm from the ale. Claude walks forward a few steps, gravel crunching under his boots. He releases a sigh and hinges forward at the waist, resting his palms on his knees for a moment.

 _If that bastard didn’t kill me, my mother certainly would have sent me to the gods herself,_ he thinks to himself. _Opening my damn mouth… how could I have been so_ stupid… _putting my friends in danger—_

“You OK, Riegan?”

Claude stands back up and turns to face Sylvain. He forces his lips into a smile, reaching back to worry the hair at the nape of his neck. “Yeah, I'll be fine. Sorry for ruining our evening,” he tells the three of them.

“It's not your fault—those guys were assholes,” Sylvain assures him. “Besides, Hilda really needed a reason to stop drinking.”

Hilda hiccups, swaying on her feet. “No, I did not!”

The three of them laugh at her—finally breaking the lingering tension from the prior situation. Sylvain scoops up Hilda onto his back, and despite being utterly drunk, she is able to wrap her arms around his neck with some firm prompting. He carries her up the road to the monastery, his arms hooked around her knees. Dorothea pulls the sleeves of her dress down around her hands to keep them warm and Claude tries his best not to be so damn _irritated_ at himself.

The moon hangs slender in the sky like one of the many silver pieces that Dorothea won tonight as they slip in through the monastery gates and the empty marketplace. Hilda’s snoring softly as they mount the steps and turn left to head to the dormitories.

“I'll get Hilda to bed. Don't worry about it, you two,” Sylvain whispers back at his friends. He manages an awkward wave back at them before crossing the courtyard to the dormitory staircase. Dorothea touches Claude’s shoulder gently and wishes him a good night. He smiles down at her and thanks her.

“I know you’d do the same for me,” she tells him before slipping away into the shadows cast from the greenhouse.

Claude lingers a moment and regards the ripples that dance across the pond. _You’re right, Dorothea,_ he thinks. _But you shouldn’t have to defend me._

A gust of wind whistles by, ruffling his hair and his cloak. _Damn, it really is starting to get cold here._ He tugs the fabric tighter around him, homesick for the sunny plains and arid landscape of his homeland. Claude gazes up at the ashlar terrace that overlooks the pond and sees Flayn staring down at him from between the parapets, her mint eyes glowing otherworldly in the moonlight.

But in a blink, she’s gone.  
  
  


* * *

The ride to Enbarr is a long four days. Ferdinand could pay someone to warp him down to Enbarr or purchase magical elixirs for Capilet so she can make the trip in a fraction of the time—both much more efficient means of travel—but he needs the week to himself to think.

On the first night, he stays in a small village just outside of Gronder Field. Before retreating to the inn for the night, Ferdinand takes a stroll to the outskirts of the bluffs that overlook the Bergliez’s vast farmlands. He spies the fieldhands still working diligently at clearing out the historic Gronder Field in the last dying rays of sunlight. In a few weeks’ time, he and his classmates will pick up their training weapons and vie for the title and honor that comes with the victory over the other two houses.

 _What honor is there in defeating those who were born on the opposite side of your country line?_ he thinks dourly. _Has this battle only been practice for what is to come in a few short months?_

On the second night, he stops in Aegir territory. He knows his family is staying in Enbarr, as they always do when the autumn season rolls around and the weather begins to cool. Capilet is quite excited to spend the evening in a proper stable with fresh water in her trough and bales of hay to eat. Ferdinand, however, feels a dash of unease at spending the night in his family home. Walking through the halls and looking upon the portraits of Prime Ministers past and present that hang there… just doesn’t inspire the pride that it once had.

 _Whatever Professor Byleth had been implying… it cannot possibly be anything of note,_ he muses. _Especially considering how she mentioned Hrym. Father did everything he could to support both the Viscounty of Hrym after their failed defection from the Empire. He spent months in the territory to aid in rebuilding and restructuring Hrym—even lending financial support to House Ordelia of the Alliance, even_ after _they aided Hrym in their rebellion._

 _It was Emperor Ionius’ army that violently quelled the rebellion of Hrym—why should I have to ask my father about what happened in Hrym when he—Ludwig von Aegir—was the_ hero _of Hrym? The Emperor was the one who destroyed the Hrym bloodline and sowed undue destruction across Ordelia lands simply out of spite. Duke Aegir was one that responded with_ kindness _and_ grace _to the people there._

Ferdinand looks up at an oil painting of his father in his gold and crimson regalia. _Right, father?_

One of the house servants goes to prepare a meal for him, and he takes the opportunity to duck into his father’s study. He runs a hand over the top of the large oak desk in the center of the room. Using the matches left on the table top, he lights the two of the oil lamps in each corner of the space before taking a seat in the large upholstered chair at the desk. The legs of the chair screech against the hardwood floors as Ferdinand pulls his seat closer and begins opening the drawers on either side of him.

 _What in the goddess’ name are you even_ doing, _Ferdinand?_ While his father isn’t here to catch him, the shame makes his cheeks burn nonetheless. His heart racing in his chest and the rolling feeling in his stomach is enough to make him wretch… but the only thing stronger than his shame is his need to know what Byleth meant about his father.

 _Maybe she did not mean anything at all,_ part of him thinks as he shuffles through random papers and envelopes in the top drawer. _Maybe all of this is a ploy to distract me from Edelgard’s role in all of this. Hrym… the Hresvelg children… what does that have to do with anything, especially his—_

A thick piece of folded parchment falls out from the stack of papers he lifts from the second drawer. Ferdinand bends down to pick it up, carefully unfolding it. It turns out to be three pieces of worn and yellowed parchment, upon which there’s writing front and back. With ink bleeding through on both sides of the paper, it’s not the easiest for him to read in places.

At first he’s unsure if there’s any particular order to the pages, or whether to read front or back first, but upon closer inspection, he notices dates written out at the beginning of paragraphs across the set of pages. He decides to read the pages in chronological order, beginning with the earliest date:

  
  


**_18 Red Wolf Moon, 1159_ **

_Arrived in Glouce_ s҉t҉ _er yesterday evening—travelling this late in the season is not terribly bad. Weather is milder than I expected._ ▝ _Good to see Leo again and Marina is as beautiful as ever._ ▓▓▖▅

 _Today, Leo and I drew up trade arrangements for dye and spiced teas. Will finalize them tomorrow. Went hunting this evening. The grounds_ ▓ _here are as enormous as they are plentiful. Two deer. Would li_ k҉ _e to get a bear before returning home._

**_26 Red Wolf Moon, 1159_ **

_Received an owl today with news from Enbarr._

_Mina gave birth to a girl. Cecilia von Hresvelg. No c_ r҉ _est._ ▞ _At least there’s her brother. It would be a shame if Oda’s next child does not bear a crest either, due before the end of winter._

_Sad day for Adre̶s̷t̷i̷a̴._

**_3 Ethereal Moon, 1159_ **

_Leaving tomorrow morning. Trade agreements are a success. Spent the day hunting outside of Sȃ̷̩u̴͉̓i̴̻̊n̴̨̕ Village. Desolate place, but good rye. Got the bear a̸n̸d̶ a we̵̹͝n̵̜̕ch, too._

**_26 Ethereal Moon, 1159_ **

_Steffan von H̶r̸e̸s̶v̵e̴l̷g̷ was born today, though Oda was lost in childbirth. Minor Crest of Seiros. Finally a child with a crest. May she find peace with the go̶d̸de̷s̶s._

_Tomorrow is St. Cichol Day. Letters from Varley say the snow has been too bad by the mountains. Not t̵r̵a̶v̷elling this year. Edith and I will pray at home this year that Cichol may bless us and Mina with his crest in the new year._ ▓▖

**_10 Lone Moon, 1159_ **

_Edith is not with child yet since I’ve been back in the Empire. We will continue to pray for a son and that Cichol wil̶l̷ ̸b̴l̶e̸s̷s my heir with a strong crest._

_Ionius has not resumed court yet since Oda. Will not even entertain me for tea. Vestra and I can only keep up with his paperwork for so long. Ë̴̪̳͉́͆ḏ̷͈̐ith and I will return to Aegir next moon_ ▓▓▓▓ _regardless. Unlike His Maj̷e̷s̸ty, I will not neglect my territory and duties to the people._

  
  


“Lord Ferdinand, pardon me,” the house servant calls from the door, startling him. Thoroughly flustered, Ferdinand slips the papers back into the drawer and closes it before realizing that it’s not his father calling him, it’s just the house servant.

“Y-yes?”

“Your dinner is ready. Would you like me to bring it up to you?”

Ferdinand shakes his head. “Thank you. If you could deliver it to my quarters, I am about to head to bed.”

The house servant nods and makes her exit. Exhaling a measured breath, Ferdinand slides the second drawer open once more and grabs the papers. Upon closer inspection, he notices the edges are torn, like they are pages out of a bound book or journal. He folds the parchment and tucks them into the waist of his riding pants before extinguishing the lamps and retiring for the night.

He would search the office for the book where these pages were torn from in the morning. In the meantime, he neglects his plate of dinner, the beef and potatoes growing cold as he reads more of his father’s journal entries until he cannot simply keep his eyes open anymore.

  
  


**_28 Harpstring Moon, 1160_ **

_Even with the warmer weather, Edith is still not with child. Vestra is c̵̰̈o̴̦͊v̶̙̅ȇ̴̻r̶̺̈́ing for the Emperor so we could return home so we can try for an heir and I tend to my duties. He just had his first son not even a full year after marriage._

_Edith says it is wrong of me to be jealous, yet we are still without an h̷e̴i̷r̵._

**_16 Garland Moon, 1160_ **

_Had to leave the estate due to flooding. Arrived in Enbarr two days ago. Court has resumed again finally, yet Ionius still refuses to see court physicians each_ ▓▓ _ning. Mina’s handmaiden informs me that the empress̵ ̸c̴o̶n̶sort is pregnant, two moons along._

 _Good news for the Empire, but Ionius still needs to find another_ ▓▓▖▖.

**_29 Horsebow Moon 1160_ **

_Back in Glouć̷̟ẽ̶̘s̵̲̿ter. Edith left for Enbarr alone. Court has been difficult and needed a break. Leo welcomed me with news that Marina is with child. He doesn’t know that Edith has been unsucć̷̟ẽ̶̘s̵̲̿sful still._

_Leo, Vestra, even Ionius. Yet the goddess frowns upon House Aeg̵̜͎͋i̷̭̘̎̇r̷̼̍̈._

▓▓▓▓▓▓ _week or two of hunting with Leo should lift my spirits._

**_16 Wyvern Moon, 1160_ **

_Stopped in Aegir on way back to Enbarr today. Stablehand gave birth last week. It’s a boy. N̶̿̋ͅơ̸̬ crest._

**_13 Guardian Moon, 1160_ **

_Edith is not with child. Over two years and still no heir._ ▖▅

_Wrote to Leo today to ask for his advi̶̪͂̒̓̄̆̌͐͛͆͐̚͘͠͠c̴̮̝͍͛e̴̢̬͌̿͘._

**_17 Guardian Moon, 1160_ **

_The goddess blesses the Empire today. Mina gave birth to a girl. Minor Crest of Seiros. Hildeg̵͓͆u̷̗̽̔n̸̤̍d von Hresvelg. Hopefully this will change the Emperor’s spirits._

**_2 Great Tree Moon, 1161_ **

_Ionius wants to wed a girl from the town of Arundel, a dying lordship east of the Og̶hm̶a̵ Mountains. Vestra and I advised against this—she has no_ ▓▓▓▓ _, no dowry, no crest. She brings no value to the Empire and the Hresvelg name aside from her youth. Yet the Emperor is set on her. No thanks to the insistence of the girl’s b̵̧̳̟̈́̿͗r̶͎͙̿̐o̵͉̟̤̚ther who likely sees handing off his sister as the families last chance at regaining prosperity._

_Not worth trying to persuade His Majesty further. Perhaps she can give him 4 or 5 heirs._

_I am starting to think Edith cannot b̵̧̳̟̈́̿͗ear any children. Perhaps I too should seek a different wife._

_Leo̶̳̿ has not written back yet. I pray the owl did not fall into the wrong hands. I wrote him again today._

  
  


On the morning of the third day, Ferdinand wakes before any of the servants and heads straight back to his father’s study. He rummages through drawers and bookshelves until he finds a slim black leather bound journal whose parchment matches that of the pages he found in the desk. Flipping through it, he sees the same scrawl of his father’s handwriting and dated entries with the same brevity, along with the torn edges close to the binding where pages were very clearly torn out.

He slips the three torn out pages back into the journal before packing it away with his belongings. Before leaving, he has the house servants swear to him that they will not mention his visit to his father.

That night, he stays in the quaint and quiet town of Belmont, nestled in the largest valley of the Morgaine Ravine. He could ride about an hour more and spend the night in the actual city of Morgaine, named after the aristocratic house that governs the land between the mountains, and normally he would. The Morgaines and the Aegirs are related—the current Lord Morgaine is a distant cousin of Ferdinand’s father, as the grandfather they share was the Prime Minister far back in the Empire’s invasions of Brigid and Dagda. Summer trips to visit Morgaine were common when Ferdiannd was a child—he and his younger siblings would hike in the foothills and pick wildflowers with the Morgaine children and their cousins—the Hresvelgs born to the Lord’s sister—the former Empress Consort.

While Ferdinand smiles fondly at those memories, he knows that Lord Morgaine would take notice of his arrival. His hospitality would undoubtedly delay his arrival in Enbarr. And besides, Ferdinand doesn’t need any distractions from reading through his father’s journal entries.

Before snuffing out the candle at his bedside, Ferdinand flips through the pages still bound in the journal and finds the spot where the three pages were torn out. He also notices that later on in the journal, additional pages were torn out sporadically. _That is odd,_ he thinks to himself. He finishes reading the entries on the three pages that night, and quickly realizes why his father might have torn them out to start with.

  
  


**_25 Blue Sea Moon, 1161_ **

_Finally he̶̲̱̯̼̋̎̔͌ą̸̥̯̅̽r̴̹̅̍̐d back from Leo. His son was born last moon. He said he did not receive my fiŗ̷̡̛̻̞̦̍̅̑͝st letter._

_He advises me to find another wife. If Ionius hadn’t claimed her already, I would take that_ ̴̲͍̯̇̃▓̶͎̺́͂▓̶̭͍̳̖̞̜̏̏▓̵̢̨̘̥̱̣̃͆̎▓̷͉͖̱̝͓͆͒ͅ _. Despite being crestless, she isn’t terrible to look at. Then again, I find it hard to look at Edith anymore._

**_8 Verdant Rain Moon, 1161_ **

_Thirty-one moons and no he̷͔̖̤̘̯̟̅͊̽̾̆̏ir._

**_30 Horsebow Moon, 1161_ **

_Edith has not bled for two moons now. It seems the goddess has finally smi̴̥̋l̷̙̘̂̉͘ed down on us. I pray that it is a son. I could not bear for it no̶͍̥̮̓̀̈́̉t to be._

**_17 Ethereal Moon, 1161_ **

_For a girl fro̶͍̥̮̓̀̈́̉m a dying lordship, Anselm̸͉̎a is fulfilling her duties exceptionally. She is with child a mere few moons after wedding the Em̶̯̱̪̜̑͑p̷͚̙͕̻͛͐e̵͚͇͙̿̾ror. She and Edith have spent much time together as of late. Edith speaks of her kindly. I think she sees her as a younger sister. I pay it no mind as long as it keeps my wife con̵̡̢͚͍͊̽̄tent._

**_13 Guardian Moon, 1161_ **

_Ǐ̵͕̻̣͈̿̐̇_ ▓▓▓▓ t̶̨̢̞̻̂̕͠h̵̜͍̖́͊̇i̶̛̙̟̟s̴̗͙̗̳̊ ̶͉̂́m̴̢̙͖̰͐̾̓̕o̶̳̍̒̒͠o̸̫͔͋́n̷̺̟͍̊͛̊͜. _Received a letter from my trusted councillor back in Aegir this morn. One of the house servants gave birth. He confirms the child bears mỷ̸̢͖̣͖ crest. Unfortunately the babe is a girl. I would keep the child and her mother in employ of the estate in case Edith can not provide me any suitable male c̷r̴e̶s̷t̸ed heirs, but the matter of her crest will make her ties to me nearly impos_ ▅ _le to remain in the dark. Heir or no heir, House Aegir cannot stand if dishonoŗ̸̧̝̞̞̥̲̺̋̃́ͅed._

_My councillor will handle the matter for me, as I would be a foolish husband to abandon my very pregnant wife to clean up this unfortunate m̷a̴t̵ter._

**_31 Pegasus Moon, 1161_ **

_Many blessings this month. A new cour̴t̶ mage was appointed at the beginning of this moon—Vestra and I find the man very talented, though Ionius seems to find every reason to dislike him. Perhaps his stubbornness and ill-founded suspicion is just due to his age._

_Regardless, the mage claimed to have this new magic that could determine the gender of Anselma’s child—which she was inclined to pursue. Edith accompanied her, excited to find out about our child as well. I would be opposed to this foreign b̸̢̘͝ṟ̸̨̂̕ả̷̠͇̠̽̋nd of magic, but I would be remiss if I did not want to_ ▓▓▓ _if it was a boy._

_Many blessings as Edith is indeed carrying a boy. Anselma is due to have a girl. Furthermore, we learned last moon that Mina is again with child, though she was veh̸̤͕̓e̵̗̦̞͛͋̑m̵̩̾͌͜ently opposed to learning of the baby’s gender._

_This spring will be plentiful and prosperous for House Aegir and the Empi̵̡̱̝̔̓͛̆̑̾̓ṝ̶͎͕͔̜̝̟̔̽ȅ̸̢̮̰̫̳̗̗͒._

**_4 Lone Moon, 1161_ **

_Consulted with the court ma̷͎̍ge, and he assured me that he can use magic to determine if our son will bear the same crest as I. Edith and I a̷͎̍rgued about this for seṿ̸̫͍̜̇͘ë̵̢͖̬̠́͗̐r̴̮̒͑̚ͅal days now. I do not understand why she is so opposed to the idea. It is imperative that our heir should bear the Crest_ ▓▓ _Cichol._

_I would write Leo to consult him on the matter, but his owls back ḥ̶̤̱̄ͅa̷̬̯͈̿̈́̚v̴̡͕̱̗̈́e̵͙̯͖̪͐̄ been sparse. It seems he is busy with fatherhood and his territory, as I will undoubtedly soon discover for myself next moon. So I consulted with Vestra, and he agreed that he would desire the same knowledge if he was in my situation, and if his house allo̷w̶ed crested blood._

**_30 Great Tree Moon, 1162_ **

_My son, the legitima̸̟͌̄͝͝t̷̛̺̻̙̆e heir of House Aegir was born today. Ferd̷̳̒inand von Aegir. The goddess smiles upon him and our noble house, as does Saint Cichol, for his crệ̵̬̕͜s̶̝̬̠̠̏͑͂t manifested in my true heir._

_Undoubtedly, Ferdinand will continue the reign and prosperity of House Aegir into the next geneṙ̶̼̈́̊͋ation._ ▅▅▅▅

  
  
  
  


* * *

Every single one of Hanneman's reason seminars this week and the next are practice duels out in the courtyard—much to Hilda’s displeasure. She understands that all of this is to practice for the upcoming house battle next week, but just because she _knows_ why it's important doesn't mean that she _enjoys_ it.

Plus, it's getting cool outside, which she also hates. Dressing in warmer layers does no favors to her figure, and while a sweater would make her warmer, it would also make her sweaty. And the Academy jackets just don’t fit right—she needs to remember to take hers back to her favorite tailors in Goneril the next time she visits home.

Hilda doesn't even know why she was even placed in this seminar, to be honest. Compared to the three other Golden Deer students in the class—Lorenz, Marianne, and Lysithea—she is _worse_ than an amateur at this. But then again, Felix is also in this class, so she's not _entirely_ alone at being utterly hopeless at the subject. A reassuring thought.

“Professor Hanneman?” Marianne asks in a small voice. “Um, do you think it would reflect poorly on me if I chose not to take part in the Battle of the Eagle and Lion?”

Hilda is momentarily dumbstruck at her classmate. _Did she_ really _just ask if she could sit out of the house battle? What an odd girl,_ she thinks to herself. Lysithea seems to share the sentiment, rolling her eyes in disgust at the question. Hilda tugs Lorenz’s academy jacket—that he offered to her without her even asking, what a gentlemen—tighter around her shoulders when a gust of wind causes her to shiver. _I can’t believe someone_ actually _good at magic would want to sit out._

Without Marianne, surely the Golden Deer would have a difficult time competing in the upcoming Battle of the Eagle and Lion—the other two houses each have at least two students who specialize in magic. The Black Eagles have _three —_ which is absolutely _so_ unfair. Annette, who’s tied with Lysithea for the top score in Hanneman’s reason seminar, is in the Blue Lions along with Mercedes, who is equally as adept at black magic as she is at healing magic. Lorenz doesn’t even focus on magic, preferring a lance as his primary weapon. And while he and Lysithea both know basic healing spells, but that’s it—without Marianne as their primary healer, the Golden Deer won’t stand a chance in actual combat or in a stupid annual house battle.

“Oh, _stop!_ You’ve got to be kidding!” Hilda laughs, playfully swatting Marianne’s arm. Except she doesn’t respond like she was joking, instead pulling away from Hilda and shrinking into herself. “You _are_ kidding… right?”

Hilda searches Marianne’s serious expression but finds no levity in her eyes as she studies the courtyard grounds apathetically. _Wow, she actually_ meant _it._

“Come now, Miss Marianne. It would be prudent for you to participate, would it not?” Hanneman asks back. Marianne sighs and hangs her head, dejected, but Hilda sighs in _relief._ She’s not a fan of battle or fighting or trying hard at anything… but she knows her brother and parents would _never_ let her hear the end of it if she sat out and the Golden Deer _lost._ And like it or not, Marianne was a necessary force on the battlefield for their house.

“Now go along—your turn,” Hanneman waves Marianne along into the center of the grounds for the next duel. “And, I believe _Miss Hilda_ would make a fine opponent.”

She cringes at the sound of her name. “Seriously?” she says aloud, though not really intending to. Donning her best sheepish look, Hilda pretends to cough into her fist as she burrows herself deeper into the fabric of Lorenz’s jacket that hangs off of her small frame. “I’m not feeling so well, Professor. I… I _really_ think I should sit down.”

“You were well enough a few minutes ago,” Felix quips, loud enough for everyone to hear. She shoots him a dirty look over the collar of the jacket. Hilda’s ears burn hot with embarrassment, and Sylvain tries his best to muffle his laughter with his arm behind her.

She spins on her heel to give him the same look she gave Felix, but it only made him grin ear-to-ear. He sputters and hinges over at the waist as she nudges his side with her elbow, a little harder than she may have intended. _Not as hard as he deserves, though._

“Can’t you teach your friend to be a little nicer?” she hisses at Sylvain under her breath, her eyes flicking angrily back over to the raven-haired swordsman.

“He’ll teach me once you stop holding up the class,” Felix fires back.

“Enough, enough!” Hanneman tuts as the chatter amongst the students dies down. Hilda reluctantly slugs forward into the center of the courtyard, practically dragging her feet through the grass. “Just do your best, child.”

 _Ugh, that means I’ll have to try,_ she laments, readying a basic Thunder spell. _Wouldn’t it be best if I saved the trying for the_ actual _battle next week?_

Hilda knows she has never been good at magic. In fact, she’s not good at much of anything on the field of battle. She’s never been coordinated enough to shoot a bow and arrow, and she’s never been adept enough to wield a sword. Too slow at polishing armor and not smart enough for learning magic, as she was always told. She prefers tea and books, gardens and Fodlanese fashion to any kind of combat. But if she _absolutely_ _had_ to choose, she prefers an axe in her hand. Because of tradition, yes—her brother and her father and his father before that all led the Goneril armies with an axe in hand... But in truth, the only reason why she’s decent enough at axes is because the weight of the weapon does most of the work for her, and she’s lucky to be strong enough to swing it down.

She also just so happens to be quick. Not _fast_ by any stretch of the imagination—running long distances tires her out and makes her hair all sweaty and gross. But she maintains a quickness that always comes through to get her out of trouble in the knick of time.

Like now.

Hilda's Thunder spell misses Marianne by several yards and she hears her classmates laugh at her, sure. But she deftly sidesteps and avoids an icy blast from Marianne, as well as a Nosferatu spell that shimmers through the air right behind it.

“No _fair!”_ Hilda calls out, quickly regaining her balance and hurling another poorly aimed spell toward her classmate. It misses, not surprising to her. “I thought we weren’t allowed to use white magic in this class?” She looks toward Professor Hanneman, hoping that maybe he’ll agree with her and end the duel by declaring Hilda the victor thanks to this little technicality. But he simply shrugs from the sidelines. With a huff, Hilda narrowly avoids a half dozen ice spears throttling toward her.

A pang of jealousy strikes her as she can’t seem to manifest another Thunder spell in her hands.

 _Why am I so bad at this? And why is she so good… when she doesn’t even_ want _to fight, like_ ever?! _Ugh._

Hilda shakes out her hands with a certain frustration, trying to rid them of whatever bad luck that’s holding her back. She brings her hands together again and again in quick succession, desperate to fire off at least one more spell before Marianne releases her next attack.

“Come on, come _on—”_

A sudden stabbing pain runs through Hilda’s right arm, from her fingertips to her elbow. It feels like she has no control over her arm as it’s outstretched before her. A yelp escapes her lips as she’s finally able to pull her hand back to her chest, except it snaps back violently like recoiling from a burn—but not before a white hot streak of lightning strikes the limestone paving behind Marianne, back by the doors to the training grounds. The crack causes a grumble of _actual_ thunder that quite literally shakes the monastery grounds. She stumbles, too taken aback by the sight and the painful prickling numbness running up her arm to dodge the Nosferatu that hits her head-on.

She twists and collapses to the ground, still clutching her right arm in discomfort—not from Marianne’s spell, but from whatever spell _she_ unleashed moments before. _What in Seiros’ name—_

“Miss Hilda!” Hanneman exclaims as hushed chatter breaks out amongst the students. “I cannot believe it. You… you—”

Hilda looks up at her classmates who are all staring back at her—and not even because her hair is done up cute or she’s wearing a new dress. Because she’s a _freak_ that nearly blew up the training grounds and broke her arm while doing it.

“Bolting," Lysithea states simply. "You can cast Bolting."

Lysithea's expression is unreadable as she looks down her nose at her—some mix between irritation and surprise that Hilda can't quite place. Her scrutinizing gaze makes her feel uncomfortable. The other students continue to whisper to each other as she stands and brushes off her skirt, still cradling her right arm close to her chest, her fingertips still tingling with electricity. Thankfully, Lorenz swoops in with a careful arm around her shoulders to lead her off to the side of the courtyard with the other students. 

"That was simply _incredible,_ Hilda," he gushes. "Quite positively the best performance we've seen so far this year!"

Normally she would eat up his compliment, but today Hilda shakes her head. "I _lost,_ though." She curls her fingers around the fabric of the overly long sleeves of Lorenz's jacket as they watch on as Lysithea steps into the center of the courtyard to duel Marianne next.

"Bolting… I never thought that I would get to witness for myself that spell in action! It is incredibly difficult, so I've read…" Lorenz trails off, prattling on like he does, except he's stuck on Hilda's unintentional firing of that spell— _bolting, or whatever —_ instead of observing the masterful exchange of spells happening in the duel right before them. "What I must know is how you were able to accomplish such a feat…"

Brushing a loose strand of her hair out of her face, Hilda fleetingly wishes Ferdinand was in this class. Perhaps he would laud her like Lorenz is now—it's not that she _dislikes_ the positive attention she's getting from her housemate… nor the points and whispers in her direction from the others. It's just that part of her wishes that Ferdinand could finally see her do something. Maybe then he'd actually see _her._ A Thoron and Fire spell collide in a fantastical explosion before the group of students, and there's a tap on Hilda's left shoulder.

"Yes, please share how _you_ of all people were able to learn such a spell in the first place," a low voice murmurs into her ear.

Hilda turns just enough to look over her shoulder. _Hubert. Of course, the one person that I don't want to notice._

"Look, it was an _accident,"_ she hisses back at him.

He looks smugly back at her and drops the subject without a fight, folding his arms and keeping his eyes on the duel ahead of him. Lysithea dazzles everyone by casting spell after spell without seemingly losing a beat—twirling her hands effortlessly to both cast and ward against Marianne’s attacks. She has no need to swiftly dodge incoming spells like Hilda had to; she simply stands unmoving, deflecting everything with her own magic.

Like a waltz, Lysithea moves forward after each exchange, keeping tempo and slowly closing the gap between her and her opponent. And as awe-inspiring as Lysithea's intensity and mastery of her craft is, perhaps even more intriguing is Marianne's ability to keep the pace with her. They both hurl a burst of magic at each other at the same time again—not at all coincidental as the collision is entirely Lysithea's doing, intentionally disrupting the flow and timing of their duel to throw Marianne off balance. Both of them dig their feet into the ground to stay upright as they push their hands forward, trying to propel their spells _just enough_ to outlast the other.

Lysithea has other plans, though. After a few seconds of being deadlocked, she pulls her spell back to everyone's surprise—even her opponent. In one seamless movement, she casts ward with one hand to guard her from Marianne’s Thoron while pivoting her body to hurl a Fire spell her way. This catches Marianne off-guard, and in the split second before the spell hits her square, she lifts one arm out of reaction—an ineffective shield to the incoming blaze.

Hilda gasps as Marianne's chest glows, like as if a crest were activating. _Wait, does Marianne even_ have _a crest? How have I not noticed before?_

Hilda can't quite process what she's witnessing; everything is happening so fast. But without a doubt, there _is_ a crest glowing as Marianne somehow uses its manifestation to neutralize the Fire spell. The crest symbol is unrecognizable to Hilda as its golden light reflects in her Marianne's eyes which are wide with fear—sheer terror, actually… It's unsettling to see someone so... afraid. _But of what?_ she wonders.

Marianne hurls a gust of Cutting Gale straight through the fiery sphere, rendering it into smoke and ash. _What is there to be afraid of?_

In the blink of an eye, that same Cutting Gale hits an unprepared Lysithea square in the chest with such force that it knocks her several yards back, pummeling her into the shrubbery at the far end of the courtyard where she lands crumpled in a heap. Marianne falls to her knees, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as the rest of the class audibly gasps. Sylvain and Linhardt jog over to Lysithea, pulling her up out of the bushes and into a seated position on the grass.

Hilda and the other students begin circling around them as Professor Hanneman orders someone to run to the infirmary and fetch vulneraries and Manuela. Linhardt carefully checks Lysithea for broken bones, which thankfully, he verifies that she doesn’t have.

Someone is crying, and Hilda stands on her tiptoes to peer around the group of students to see who it is. It's definitely not Lysithea, despite everything that just happened, as Sylvain is helping her to her feet. Whirling around, Hilda realizes the sobs are coming from Marianne—her cheeks wet and her hands trembling as she stands several feet behind the rest of the class.

Hilda pulls away from the group to comfort her, though she finds it near impossible to do so. Marianne is crying so hard, she can barely take in a full breath.

"I'm so sorry," she whimpers. "Lysithea, I am so so sorry." She repeats her apology over and over, gasping out the words between her tears. Hilda rubs circles into her back to try to comfort her and notices the back of Marianne’s left hand as she lifts her trembling fingers to wipe the moisture collecting at her top lip. The skin there is bright red and blistered—it’s gross and probably very painful.

"Hey, let me see your hand," she tells her housemate, tugging on her arm to get a closer look. Hilda gingerly turns over Marianne’s burnt hand to inspect it. While she was able to deflect Lysithea's spell for the most part, it must have been such a close call that it managed to singe her anyway. "We should get this healed right away so it doesn't scar, huh?"

Marianne frowns and shakes her head, hot tears falling onto their hands. "I shouldn't be the one you're worried about…"

"Hey, don't talk like that!" Hilda reprimands her. "You're hurt, too. You need to have your burn healed, Marianne."

"I don't deserve—"

"Don't be _silly._ You’re going to get healed. Even if I have to heal you myself," Hilda laughs, the gentle glow of a Heal spell enveloping the burned and blistered skin. The healing is definitely slow, and it's taking all of her focus to maintain the spell. Hilda never was good at magic, especially healing magic. But she's managing for now, and that's all that matters. "Besides, what happened was an accident, yeah? I guess your crest just activated. That happens someti—"

"Stop," Marianne pleads.

Hilda can feel her hand tense around hers. She immediately stops talking and an uncomfortable silence falls between them for a long minute. Hilda feels the need to say _something,_ but unsure of what else to talk about. Now things are just… awkward. Almost like she's reading her mind, Marianne opens her mouth to speak.

"You don't have to say anything to me, Hilda." Her voice is so small as she lowers her head, her blue fringe of bangs covering her eyes. Hilda nods and continues to try and heal Marianne’s hand quietly. After a while, her hand tenses up again as she audibly winces.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Hilda gasps. "I'm sorry if that hurt… I'm not good at healing, or magic in general…"

Marianne shakes her head. "It's just tender, that's all." With her good hand, she reaches up and wraps it delicately around Hilda’s to help better direct her spell. "Try positioning your hand like this," she instructs, moving Hilda’s hand accordingly. "If you keep your palm and fingers soft, the energy can flow easier."

Almost immediately, the blistering on Marianne’s hand begins to lessen dramatically, the swelling reducing much faster now. Hilda smiles and laughs, despite the pang of jealousy and inadequacy that nestles into her chest. "Wow! _See,_ you're so good at this stuff, Marianne!"

Her classmate looks up at her, but she doesn't return the smile. Over Marianne's shoulder, Hilda sees Linhardt wrapping one arm around Lysithea to steady her as she walks off the courtyard with a slight limp. She realizes quickly that both of them are staring at Marianne—and probably her, too. Linhardt’s expression is curious, which is not that unlike him... but Lysithea's expression isn't anywhere as neutral as his. She looks… very clearly upset. Her eyes are alarmed and intense as they regard Marianne with trepidation.

Hilda lets her gaze fall back down to healing Marianne's burns. She feels irritated at Lysithea all of a sudden, her brow wrinkling. _She told you she was_ sorry, _what more do you want from her?_

"She's right to be upset," Marianne murmurs, again, almost like she could read her mind. "I hurt her. A week before the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. It's my fault if she can't participate." She pulls back her hand suddenly out of Hilda's grasp, turning away from her. 

"H-hey…!"

Marianne cradles her burnt hand carefully against her chest as she looks over her shoulder back at Hilda. She doesn't make eye contact, though.

"You're not bad at magic, you know," she says simply. "I… I must go."

Marianne walks back to the dormitories and Hilda lets her walk away, though it makes her feel bad. She flexes the fingers of her right hand when she notices they're still tingling.   
  
  


* * *

Felix sits whetstone in hand, sharpening his sword. The week’s classes had just ended, and many of the Academy students went off on their merry way to enjoy their two free days. Sylvain and Claude are off chasing women or gambling or whatever other trouble they like to drum up together. Mercedes and Annette have a weekend of baking planned, but Felix hates sweets, so he turned down their offer for him to taste-test. Ingrid and Hilda are each visiting home along with Linhardt, he supposes. If the sleepy mage isn’t in the library, his bed, or down here in Abyss, then he has to have returned home.

Oh, and Ferdinand, too. He took off at the beginning of the week—Byleth approved an extended trip for him to return home. Hopefully he talks to his father like she implored him to do—though Felix can’t really blame anyone for _not_ wanting to talk to their father.

There are exceptions to this concept of enjoying the days off, of course. Like the fact that Felix is sitting down in the cold dark tunnels of Abyss instead of taking up Caspar on his offer to spar. It makes him feel slightly better that there’s other students wasting their days off down here. It’s not like they can accomplish any adequate scouting without half of their usual numbers. Especially since the smartest one of all of them—Linhardt—wouldn’t return until the beginning of the week.

Hubert is down here, too. Except he’s busy gossiping about Empire business with Constance, and Felix should probably be listening in closer, to be honest. Though it’s quite difficult for him to follow their conversation when the boar keeps talking Byleth’s ear off just behind him. Felix sighs, doing his damnedest to make sure the expression on his face conveys just how annoyed he is.

He’s made it plain that he disapproves of Dimitri’s involvement in anything that they’re doing underground, especially since it’s clear that the Flame Emperor is involved in some capacity. But of course, Byleth invites him down here. She claims that Yuri forced her hand and that she _had_ to, but Felix doubts that she had a dagger to her throat on the matter. Felix is a lot of things, but not dumb. It’s just irritating because ever since the boar showed up down here, he hasn’t been able to get a word in edgewise to Byleth.

Felix continues to hone his blade, but with renewed vigor. He also tries again to focus on Hubert and Constance’s conversation.

“There is talk that a Relic fell into his hands during the Dagda and Brigid war,” the blonde mage explains. “The Church of Seiros was displeased to learn this. They feel the Relic should belong to them and have made that plain to House Gerth.”

_Huh, just like they wanted Sylvain’s Relic._

“Castle Gerth is only 70 odd miles west of Remire village—we can easily make it there by nightfall—an entire day ahead of the Knights if your whispers are correct,” Hubert suggests, his voice barely above a whisper. “Or I could just warp us there.”

Constance swats at her friend’s arm. “Hubert—you insult me so. Regardless of how we get there, if _I_ could return the relic to Lady Rhea instead, perhaps it can help to restore my status, revive House Nuvelle, and return it to its former glory!”

“Scheming now, shady lady?”

Both Constance and Felix turn around to the source of the voice— _Yuri._ Quickly, Felix puts his head back down to his sword and whetstone as to pretend like he didn’t just out himself for eavesdropping on a conversation that clearly didn’t include him. _I’ll keep listening in for now,_ he tells himself. _But at least I’m not the only one guilty of eavesdropping._

“I thought they were all returned to the descendants of the 10 Elites by the Church ages ago,” Yuri continues, his tone playful as per usual. Felix isn’t able to tell if he’s being serious or sarcastic. “House Gerth has no ties to the Elites, and I don't think the head even _has_ a Crest. Odd indeed for them to have a Relic. Probably gifted as recompense to House Gerth as part of a reconciliation.”

Felix looks up at Yuri who’s worrying his bottom lip with his thumb; he’s overtly trying to seem puzzled about the matter, but Felix calls bullshit on that. Yuri’s smirk betrays his little act. “Well, don’t you sound rather well-informed on the subject,” he interjects, the whetstone in his hand stilling.

“Eh, I caught wind of some of the story, which piqued my interest,” Yuri replies flippantly. “I did some digging and drew conclusions, like I tend to do. So what you've got is what I think—nothing more. Anyway, Constance.” He turns to face her now, curtsying like a fool. “If you're headed to House Gerth, so am I.”

From what Felix has been able to tell about her, Constance also sees through Yuri’s dramatics. She’s discerning, even now as she frowns back at him. “What game are you playing here?” she asks, obviously skeptical.

Yuri laughs and shakes his head. “No games—this time. I just want to get a gander at that shiny Relic they're keeping hidden away. Anyway, this is all for _House Nuvelle,_ right?” he adds with a wink. Felix feels like he could vomit at the insincerity. _This guy sounds like Sylvain. Just trying to woo himself into a situation that’s over his head._

“I haven't the authority to prevent it,” Constance starts reluctantly, “but if you must accompany Hubert and I, then I should like the Professor and a few of our allies.”

“I’ll go,” Felix quickly volunteers himself without missing a beat.

“Myself as well, Constance.”

Felix cringes at the boar’s voice as he and Byleth walk over to join them. He doesn’t even bother to look up at him, deciding to look anywhere else as to not acknowledge his presence. His eyes land on Hubert’s face which _normally_ would bother him, except right now he catches him rolling his eyes at Dimitri. The corner of Felix’s mouth threatens to twitch up into a smirk at the sight. _This quite possibly might be the only thing that Hubert and I have in common. Who could have possibly thought?_

“Excellent. The more eyes watching this snake, the better,” Constance says, though it’s more of a codified warning for Yuri as her blue eyes shoot daggers at him over her shoulder.

All Yuri does is laugh, as he tends to do at most things. “I think you've confused a snake with a bird.”

While it is the weekend, it’s still broad daylight out and there’s dozens of church personnel milling about the monastery. There’s no way that Yuri or Constance could just walk into the stables and take horses without drawing attention. Warping would be ideal, but only Constance and Hubert know how to warp, which would leave two behind. So instead, Felix, Hubert, and Dimitri all gather enough horses for the six of them--Hubert doing the warping back to the stables to ride out the other three horses more efficiently—while Byleth gathers a day’s worth of supplies for them.

Hubert was right, that it’s only a half-day’s ride to Castle Gerth with a few equine potions. The journey itself is uneventful. Boring, even. At least for Felix, that is. He would normally pass time talking to Byleth, but she and Dimitri ride ahead of all of them, the boar bothering her the entire way. He would even consider talking to Hubert—at least there would be some basis for conversation, even if it’s just their mutual dislike of Dimitri—but Constance is busy chattering away to him. There goes his only two options for conversation, leaving him alone.

It’s not entirely a bad thing, though. Felix doesn’t particularly mind being alone. Most of the time he enjoys it. He likes fighting alone, anyway.

Unfortunately, Felix isn’t able to keep to himself for long before Yuri butts in.

“Felix, Felix, Felix…” he sings his name with a grating amount of saccharine. Felix feels nauseated again. “Finally we have some time to ourselves to catch up, yeah?”

Felix scoffs, not even bothering to soften his disgusted facial expression in the slightest. “I’m not interested,” he states gruffly.

Yuri is persistent as ever, though. He pulls his mare up close to his and leans over to prove his point. “Come on, Fe,” he teases, and Felix literally cringes at the use of that nickname. There’s only two people that he would allow to call him that—Glenn, the one who started using the damn name to begin with, and Annette, because she’s just too innocent when she says it for it to be intended with anything other than kindness. Well, maybe three people, because he supposes he wouldn’t be bothered if Byleth were to call him that. Either way, Yuri is one hundred percent _not_ on that list.

“You’re telling me you don’t remember?” Yuri asks pointedly.

“Don’t call me that,” Felix snaps. “And there’s nothing to remember.” He pulls on the reins of his horse, willing it to pull ahead.

Of course Felix remembers Yuri. That’s why he wants nothing to do with him. After that summer in Fhirdiad and the others spent on the coast, after Duscur… after the Rebellion…

 _Of course_ Felix remembers. Parts of it are too painful to forget. Dimitri acts pleasantly to Yuri, but how much does he _really_ remember after everything he went through? But then again, the boar acts pleasant to _everyone._ Felix doesn’t know if Yuri was simply forgettable to Dimitri, or if he simply hadn’t wronged him. Regardless, Felix hates thinking about it. He hates that Count Rowe ever found Yuri, that he ever joined the Kingdom. He hates that he knows him in _any_ capacity, and hates that the goddess somehow found a way for him to creep up again in their lives. He hates looking at Yuri, and hates working alongside him even more.

Thankfully, they arrive at the village outside Castle Gerth just as the sun dips behind the evergreens on the horizon. The six of them proceed down the main gravel road toward the castle walls. The marketplace is slowing down for the evening, but some villagers are still milling about while a few vendors begin packing up and closing their stalls.

Hubert spies Duke Gerth out of the crowd, a relatively plain looking man with salt and pepper hair that’s cut short around his ears. He’s dressed in an expensive coat with ornate detailing at the shoulders and waist belt with gaudy brass buttons that reflect the dying sunlight and the flicker of torchlight. A young girl, presumably his daughter based on their shared resemblance and Adrestian fashion sense, stays close to him as he speaks to a merchant. There’s a knight accompanying them as well. Felix knows little about Adrestian political figures and nobles, but he figures that since he doesn’t see a scabbard around Duke Gerth’s waist, the man is more of a diplomat than a general—hence the knight.

Everyone dismounts from their horses, Yuri and Dimitri staying behind to ensure they are tied up properly over by a water trough. A flutter of dark robes catches Felix’s attention out of the corner of his eye, but when he turns, there’s no one there. He hums as he rests a hand on the pommel of his sword, following Hubert and Constance as they lead the way through the marketplace toward Duke Gerth. They’re still too far away from the Duke to be able to hear the conversation between him and the merchant, especially considering the chatter from the other villagers walking about the market, but it’s clear based on body language that the exchange is not going in the merchant’s favor.

Gerth steps respectfully back and shakes his head with a smile, while the merchant leans in closer to further press his offer. Again, the duke declines. This time without a smile. He gives the merchant a curt wave as he moves to leave the stall, ushering his daughter out in front of him. That’s when Felix spies the dark robes again, this time clear as day, a pair of them moving and making their way through the market.

“Byleth,” he says thinly, reaching out a hand to tug her over to him. She looks at him questioningly, but he shushes her as he points out another set of dark robes moving through the crowd around them. _Dark mages._

There’s a cry from up ahead as Gerth’s daughter is yanked away by one of them. The dark mage quickly warps over to stand beside a tall and imposing looking figure clad in the same dark robes, except for feather detailing at the breast that reminds Felix of the Flame Emperor’s attire. While the dark mage holding Gerth’s crying and struggling daughter wears the beaked mask they’ve all seen before, the tall figure stands unmasked, though his face is obscured by the wide brim of the warlock hat he wears.

Everyone responds quickly after that—Gerth’s knight readies his lance and steps before his lord to defend him; Hubert and Constance pick up the pace and push their way through the market, and Felix and the others draw their weapons, only a few paces behind them. Felix surveys the crowd around them, picking out the dark mages as most of the villagers and merchants duck out of the way behind stalls and into pubs and homes at the commotion. His heart is racing as his hand tightens around the handle of his sword.

“Allow me to make the trade simpler for you, Duke Gerth,” the warlock calls out across the market. “Your daughter for the Relic you keep.”

Gerth makes a pained expression, but is quick to accept the new terms. “Fine, just don’t hurt her,” he pleads, the desperation evident in the way his voice cracks around his vowels.

“Halt,” Hubert calls out, finally making it to the other end of the market before the Duke. “You cannot give a Relic to such a _filthy_ rat.”

“H-Hubert?” Gerth blinks at him in disbelief. “And _you!_ Constance? Of House Nuvelle?” He points incredulously at the blonde mage, and turns even more pale at the sight of her, if such a thing were at all possible given the dire circumstances of the situation.

“It has been some time, Duke—”

Hubert throws an arm out before Constance to silence her. “Now is not the time for niceties,” he all but growls at her. His eyes look over to the warlock and the mage holding the duke’s daughter captive. “That bastard has brought mages and thieves everywhere.”

With a step, Hubert hurls a blast of dark magic directly at the warlock, though he just warps himself, his henchman, and the Duke’s daughter out of the line of fire. The spell obliterates a fruit stall in a cloud of purple smoke as red and green apples roll across the cobblestone. The warlock and his company reappear atop a grassy hill before the castle wall overlooking the market.

“You prove to be an unexpected obstacle,” he announces, a chuckle in his voice as it booms across the marketplace. Felix thinks he hears Hubert snarl in disgust, leaving an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “If I have to pry the Relic from the Duke’s dead hands, all the better! Children of the beasts, expose your true selves!”

Around them, people begin crumpling to the ground. They writhe on the ground, hollering out in pain and fear until they begin to choke on a slimy black substance that begins foaming out of their mouths. The other villagers and merchants shriek and trip over each other to run away as the bones of the figures convulsing on the ground begin to crack and crunch as their bodies mutate into grotesque beasts.

Felix _really_ feels like he’s going to be sick now—more beasts, just like at Conand Tower. The pink healed scars on his sword arm ache at the memory, but he refuses to let fear take hold of him. This isn’t the first beast he’s fought—neither is it the first for Hubert, Dimitri, and Byleth. He doubts that this is anything new for Byleth, but this is the first time for the rest of them that there’s more than one beast. And while they’re all armed, they’re without support and without a proper healer. Hell, they came all the way out here for a Relic, not a fight with monstrosities that are ten times their size.

“It… it cannot be,” Constance gasps, her eyes wide with horror. “They’ve become hideous beasts?”

One of them roars before rearing and heading straight for the Duke. Hubert grabs Constance’s arm, practically dragging her along over to Gerth’s aid. “Come! We must protect the Duke,” he calls out. The stink of Hubert’s dark magic fills the market as he and Constance do their best to withstand the beast’s attacks as the Duke’s knight shuffles him to safety.

Byleth and Dimitri work in tandem to fend off the second beast in the center of the market while Felix and Yuri do their best to usher the villagers to safety. However, they are quickly pinned toward the eastern side of the market by the last beast.

“Magic to break its scales,” Felix repeats Byleth’s instructions from Conad Tower to Yuri, shouting over the commotion at him. _He does know magic, doesn’t he? He has to._ Felix finally has gotten the hang of a few basic spells, but right now when the moment counts, he can’t seem to manifest his magic in the slightest. Strikes from his sword are useless against the thick armor-like scales of the beast.

Thankfully, Yuri must have heard him, because he hurls a Sagittae spell at the beast, a flurry of magical arrows raining down upon it. Felix takes the beast’s cry of pain as opportunity—an opening—and tries to cast a Fire spell to follow Yuri’s attack. But only sparks fizzle out at his fingertips. The beast takes a swipe at them in that brief moment following Felix’s failure to cast a spell or do _anything._ While its talons miss them— _thank goddess —_ it knocks them both several yards backward as the two men tumble across the uneven cobblestone.

 _What a great place to die,_ Felix thinks to himself as he struggles to push himself up, the wind so painfully knocked out of him that his throat burns and he can’t manage to gulp down a full breath. If he could laugh, he would laugh bitterly. _There’s no way Byleth could have predicted this mess._

A gloved hand is thrust in front of his face. Felix blinks at it for a moment, his vision still blurry as he tries desperately to suck air back into his lungs. “C’mon, get up.” Blearily, he looks up at Yuri before coughing. The beast roars ominously as the lavender-haired man urges Felix once more, more frantic this time.

“C’mon, Felix. Grab my hand,” Yuri urges, pressing his other hand to his back. Felix sucks in a breath, flattening one hand against the ground, bits of gravel and rock pressing uncomfortably into the flesh of his palm. He reaches up and takes hold of the outstretched hand with his other. Yuri pulls Felix up to his feet, holding firmly onto both of his shoulders to keep him steady.

“You good?”

Felix nods, finally regaining the rhythm of his breath.

“I’ll take care of the magic bit—you just get that pretty little sword of yours ready to stab this thing,” Yuri instructs, thrusting the handle of Felix’s blade into his hands. He nods back again, curling his fingers around his sword to ground himself and bring him back to the present moment. Yuri smirks and slaps Felix’s shoulder before turning on his heel. “Great, now let’s end this quickly.”

As much as he hates to admit it, and as much as he prefers fighting alone... if Yuri wasn’t there to help him fight this beast, he would have likely been trampled already. Felix follows Yuri’s lead, maintaining a safe distance from the beast as Yuri darts in between the beast’s legs, casting spell after spell at the scales on its underside. _Easier to reach from underneath,_ Felix notes.

He hears the beast cry out after a cutting Excalibur spell hits it dead on, shattering many of its scales as they fall to the ground in sharp broken shards. Taking his cue, Felix holds tight to his blade and races ahead toward the beast. He narrowly avoids the swing of its tail before throwing his entire body into slamming the point of his sword deep into the flesh of the beast’s heart.

Felix can feel its roar reverberate through the metal of his sword before he pulls it out, black blood spewing down onto his arms and pants. The creature begins to stagger back and forth, and Felix makes a mad dash out from underneath it so it won’t collapse onto him. Once a safe distance from the beast, he pivots back around and sees Yuri standing atop its shoulders, his own sword raised to the pinnacle. He swings it down on the beast’s neck to expedite its death, more black sludge pouring from its wounds and pooling onto the ground.

“Damn, turning those poor fools into monsters…” Yuri wheezes, jumping down from the beast and wiping a spot of blood from his upper lip. “Ruthless. Wait… is that… is that a fragment of crest stone?”

Felix’s jaw clenches when he follows Yuri’s pointing finger to the ruby stone that appears to be affixed into the creature’s forehead. Its red glow slowly fades as the beast bleeds out, but its markings are unmistakable—though not a perfect sphere, it is without a doubt a crest stone. However, because it is not the complete stone, Felix can’t tell exactly what crest symbol it bears.

_What the fuck is going on?_

“We don’t have time for that,” he responds, tearing his eyes away from the mysterious crest stone and brushing past Yuri. “We have to take care of them.” He nods over toward the tall warlock and the masked mage atop the hill, Gerth’s daughter still held captive.

Felix maneuvers north towards them, careful not to trip over the pieces of fruit strewn about the marketplace. Glancing over to his left, he sees that Hubert and Constance managed to fell their beast. Constance hangs back to guard the Duke while Hubert joins Byleth and Dimitri in attacking the final beast that continues to rage.

As Felix approaches the foot of the hill, the dark mage hurls a spell at him, but he’s easily able to lunge and avoid it. _Will I even be able to get close enough?_ he thinks to himself, doubt beginning to creep in. He can’t see beyond the beaked mask of the dark mage, but as he ascends the hill, he catches a glance of what’s under the wide brim of the warlock. The man’s skin is chalky with a sickly pallor, the corners of his mouth and the line of his lips appear to be crusted with black. When the warlock smirks at him, it's as if a corpse is smiling down at him.

Felix has never seen a person in all of Fodlan look like that in his life, but he’s absolutely certain that he wants to see this man die on his blade. For turning these people into beasts… for holding a child hostage… for working with the Flame Emperor… _Edelgard…_

“Felix!”

He startles at the sound of his name, but then quickly realizes that he’s about to be hit by a blast of dark magic that sizzles through the air toward him. _Shit._

All he has time left to do is duck or brace for impact, but when he blinks, he’s suddenly a few feet further down the hill again. Except Yuri is ahead of him—right in the exact spot that he was just standing the second before. Yuri blocks the attack with his sword, the purple electricity of the spell shimmering and cracking off of his blade. He must have swapped places with him, Felix realizes.

He can see the dark mage begin to ready another spell, so Felix doesn’t have enough time to charge up the hill with his sword. Unwilling to let the opportunity evade him, he extends his left hand and furrows his brow. He feels a surge of energy ripple out from his chest and down his arm, through his fingertips. A thunderous clamor of light leaves his hand, the Thoron spell barrelling toward the masked mage. Felix’s eyes fly open in surprise that his spell successfully hit the dark mage square in the chest, causing him to buckle and fold forward. Gerth’s daughter screams, but breaks free from his grasp and bolts down the hill, nearly tripping over herself in the process. Felix jogs forward to meet her, and the girl wraps her arms tightly around his leg. He raises his blade as he shuffles her away from the warlock.

The next thing Felix knows, Dimitri is charging up the hill past him. The prince swings his lance down at the warlock, but he warps away before Dimitri can get to him. The tip of his lance strikes the grass instead, and Dimitri tumbles forward thanks to his target disappearing into thin air. The warlock reappears in the center of the marketplace, now destroyed and coated with the sticky black blood of the three slain beasts.

“I failed to attain the Relic, but the experiment yielded results,” he announces. “That’s all that matters.” Felix watches from the hill as Hubert furiously tries to blast him with a Mire B, but he warps away one last time before the spell could hit him.

“Well, that was… bizarre,” Yuri says, breaking the silence. The sun had now fully set, only the light coming from the moon and the torches that are still alight around the market.

“And _unfortunate,”_ Hubert adds, his voice biting. He tugs his gloves tighter onto his hands. _He really wanted to kill that guy, huh?_ Felix thinks, unsure what to make of that observation.

He leads Duke Gerth’s daughter down the hill to rejoin her father, one hand resting on her shoulder to assure her or comfort her or whatever one’s supposed to do to a child who was stolen from her father and held for ransom by psychotic dark mages. When Felix reaches the foot of the hill, the girl pulls away from him and dashes over to her father. She collides into him and he scoops her into a tight hug.

“Thank the goddess you were unharmed, my lord,” Constance says, turning to the Duke and bowing deeply.

“Yes, and my daughter,” he breathes and squeezes his daughter tightly. He nods over to Felix and looks visibility relieved. “All thanks to your intervention, Constance. Besides—what brings you both here anyway… and your friends?”

The blonde mage sighs, clasping her hands before her. “We were afraid… we had heard tell of plots to steal from your lordship. Once Hubert and I caught wind of such rumors,” she explains, motioning to the both of them, “we thought it best to come to ensure your safety.”

“Though I regret to inform you that this attack was only the _first,_ Duke Gerth,” Hubert adds, clearing his throat. “The Church has dispatched the Knights of Seiros to retrieve the Relic they believe you to possess—they will stop at _nothing_ to reclaim it. I thought it best to warn you, to prevent a similar fate to that of Lord Gaspard of the Kingdom.”

Felix’s brow furrows at the mention of Lonato, and his eyes flick over to Byleth. She maintains a steely expression that he can’t quite get a read on. He hums to himself.

“Yes… word has travelled of that tragedy. I appreciate your warning, Hubert. Your father must be proud of the noble you have become,” Gerth says, deeply appreciative. Hubert grimaces in return, though the Duke does not seem to react to it. _Is Hubert even capable of smiling?_ Felix wonders. “And you, Constance. I am pleased to see you, despite the circumstances of this evening. Your parents would also be proud of the woman you’ve become. I owe them a great debt for their services, since that I wish to extend to you.”

Constance shakes her head and holds up her hands. “A reward of gold shall not be necessary, Duke Gerth. I could not possibly accept—”

“Oh, our help doesn’t come for free,” Yuri interjects—quite literally, as he marches right into the conversation with hands on his hips and no bother of an introduction. “I think the Relic will do nicely--since you probably don’t want to be caught with it in your possession tomorrow when the Knights arrive.”

Felix sheaths his sword, a little harder than was probably necessary. _The nerve that he has. Unbelievable._

The Duke, however, actually seems to consider his request. “Ah, a wise point. By all means—” Gerth turns and whispers to his knight, and he nods and departs quickly to the castle. _This man is seriously going to listen to Yuri? Absolutely unbelievable._ “After the truce with Dadga, they sent me the Relic in friendship. I’ve held onto it for leverage, especially since the Empire’s relationship with the Church has chilled in recent years. Which is why I feel a bit… derelict in my duty here. It seems I've put my feelings ahead of my role.”

“How so?” Constance wonders aloud.

With perfect timing, the knight returns with a small wooden box in hand. The Duke takes it and undoes the clasp, revealing the contents to her. “See, these are the Fetters of Dromi. They draw upon the power of the Crest of Aubin—a bloodline long since died out,” he explains. “With no one to utilize the Relic’s true power, their only value lies in their history. Which is why I will discard my hand to repay a personal debt—if anyone is suited to research the magical properties of such a Relic, it is you, Constance.”

“My lord…”

* * *

After accepting the Duke’s gift, Constance and the rest of the group rides north to set up camp for the night. The location is out of the path of the Knights of Serios, so there won’t be any chance of an ill-timed run-in. They plan to return to Garreg Mach in the morning after much needed rest. Byleth and Dimitri make up two tents—Byleth and Constance are to sleep in one, and while three can just barely fit comfortably in the other tent, the four men will take rounds so that one of them will be up to keep watch. Felix makes a campfire using magic, much to Hubert’s entertainment.

“That’s new, Fraldarius,” he remarks.

“Hmph, I was hoping to surprise you at the house battle.”

Hubert smirks back, a choked laugh escaping him. “I’d have appreciated it.” He rises and wanders off to do goddess-knows-what after that, finally leaving Felix in some relative peace and quiet.

It’s only him and Constance by the fire, now. She sits quietly, which is a rarity for her. But she appears to be deep in thought, looking over her newly acquired Relic and likely processing everything that happened back at Castle Gerth. Felix was able to pick up on the fact that Constance and Gerth had some history—any specifics are lost on him, though. He can barely maintain interest in Kingdom history, much less that of the Empire.

While he’s not the biggest fan of Constance—too haughty for his liking—he does feel the slightest bit sympathetic to her current position in life. He knows she used to be of noble standing, and that it was stripped from her in a tragedy. He doesn’t need to know all of the details to understand the pain she feels and why she can be cold and rude to others. Felix knows all too well what that’s like. After Duscar, the whole world changed for him and so many others across the Kingdom. _It feels like no one else could possibly understand what you went though. It feels like you are against the world._

She’s studying the Relic—the Fetters of Dromi belonging to the Crest of Aubin, a crest Felix had never heard of. On the ride to camp, Byleth mentioned to him that she too had never heard of the crest in this life or her last. Aubin obviously was not one of the 10 Elites… and looking across the fire at the Relic, there’s also no way that Aubin was a traditional warrior by any means of the imagination.

The surviving Relics of the 10 Elites are all weapons—axes, lances, and swords—with the lone exception being his own family’s Relic, the Aegis Shield. The Fetters of Dromi looked like a manacle that you would find in a dungeon, except carved ornately and set with the crest stone to look like a piece of jewelry more than anything. _Perhaps this Aubin was a magician? But then why wouldn’t the goddess gift them a staff like she did Gloucester?_

“What are you going to do with it? Research?” Felix asks her. He thinks fleetingly about Lysithea and the crest stone he found in the Holy Mausoleum, wondering if she has made any progress on unraveling the mysteries behind that.

“Well, I don’t know what Constance has in mind, but I have some grand plans for it myself,” Yuri interrupts _again,_ standing over her shoulder and peering down at the Relic. Startled, she nearly drops the box on the ground before clutching it to her chest.

“What?! Of _all_ the self-centered— Wait. Do you mean to say that you're _compatible?”_ Constance sputters, clearly taken aback. “You mean to imply that _you_ bear the Crest of Aubin?”

Silence falls over the group for a beat.

Yuri then grins a mile-wide and pats her on the head patronizingly. “Very good, Constance! Hey, friend, I've got a request,” he says, ruffling her hair.

“Do _not_ mock me, Yuri,” she warns him, snapping away from his touch. “If you believe I will lend you a Relic, your wits are softer than I gave you credit for. You cannot tell me you are serious.”

“Why would I lie?” He warps in front of her and plucks the Relic from the box, then warps across the campfire, opposite to her and only about a foot away from Felix. Despite Constance’s protests, he slips the Relic onto his left hand and the crest stone pulses red— _compatible._ “I’m the only one in all of Fodlan that can use it,” he explains like it’s just an offhand comment. “Just letting it gather dust would be useless, yeah?”

Felix snorts. “So letting you use it to your own wily ends would be more practical?”

“You doubt me, too, Felix? I’m wounded,” Yuri gasps, one hand clutching his chest dramatically to feign offense. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I won’t use it for ill as you imply. Besides, Constance can help you keep an eye on them while they're on loan. That'll make this whole thing go over easy as pie, right shady lady?” He winks over at her. Felix folds his arms and wants to throw himself into the campfire.

Constance looks furious, her fingers tightening in the fabric of her dress skirt. “Ugh. I will agree to this _begrudgingly,_ Yuri. If I do not, you will likely only steal them from me,” she huffs.

“Too late for that, sweetheart,” Yuri laughs. He blows her a kiss as she walks away, probably to find where Hubert ran off to. Felix digs the heel of his boot into the dirt and watches the fire crackle.

“So this was the game you began when you offered her your assistance,” he remarks. “Well played.”

Yuri laughs, the sound absolutely grating. “You like that, huh? You know, you surprise me, Felix,” he says, leaning over closer to him. “I’ve got more tricks up my sleeve if that suits your fancy.”

Felix scoots away, not even giving him the satisfaction of a look in his general direction. “It doesn’t.” He looks over at the canvas tents and sees that Byleth is still up, standing outside her tent and talking to Dimitri.

“Right,” Yuri says simply. He rises to his feet with a grunt, brushing off his pants as he stands. He folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head, looking in the same direction as Felix. “You’re a man who knows what he likes. I respect that.”

“What could _you_ possibly ever know about _me?”_ Felix retorts, looking up at him now.

“More than you do,” Yuri smiles. He gives him a playful slap on the shoulder before ducking into the tent for the night. Felix decides to take the first round of nightwatch.

  
  
  
  


* * *

Byleth ducks out of her tent after Constance is fast asleep. The waxing Wyvern moon is bright in the inky sky, even through the clouds that cover her are many. Byleth tightens her blanket around her shoulders—the chill of autumn has definitely set in. She walks around the tent, hoping to find Dimitri, but releases a breath of disappointment when she sees Hubert.

The warm glow of the fire makes his profile look exceptionally gaunt with the shadows that loom in the hollows of his cheeks and eyes. He’s picking at his nails and staring off into the dancing flames. Byleth thinks about returning to the tent and willing herself to get at least a few minutes of sleep, but her shivers draw her to the warm crackle of the fire. She makes herself known, padding through leaves that crunch under her steps. Hubert looks up at her momentarily before looking away disinterested.

He might have been more willing to entertain the company if she were Constance, but she’s nothing like the talented young mage. Byleth notices the comradery between the two; in overhearing their conversations, it’s clear they have a shared history together, similar to many of her Black Eagle students. She wonders what it was like for them growing up in the Empire together as young nobility. Was there a time where Ferdinand and Edelgard played together as children do? Was there a time where Bernadetta wasn’t so fearful of others that she gossiped and played dolls with Constance? Or a time where Hubert _willingly_ laid down for afternoon nap time after playing knights with Linhardt and Caspar?

Perhaps life was simpler and less cruel for the lot of them back then. She can hope as much, at least.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Hubert asks dryly.

“Because I can’t,” Byleth answers, her words more truth than lie. She sits down cross-legged before the fire, mindful to leave a few foot distance between her and Hubert. The heat feels good on her aching muscles and shivering skin.

“Too much on my mind,” she adds, mumbling the words into the corner of her blanket as she cradles her chin in her hands, leaning forward and propping her elbows on her knees.

“You and me both.”

Byleth gives him a half-hearted laugh. She wasn’t expecting him to reply, really. Hells, she wasn’t planning on sitting out by the fire with anyone other than Dimitri, but here she is. Hubert picks up some small twigs and branches from the ground by his side and tosses them into the fire. He winces and tenses at the movement before gingerly adjusting his posture.

“How are you holding up?” she asks. “Your injuries, I mean.” It hadn’t been long at all since Hubert was injured to begin with, only to be caught up in skirmishes underground in Abyss a few days later. He is walking more steadily now, she noticed. But it’s clear that his injuries are not entirely healed—not surprising given the man never takes a break. Byleth has her suspicions of _why_ he feels so inclined to linger around their aiding of Abyss, despite not being fully recovered from severe injuries and Edelgard not being present. Though she has suspicions about the latter bit, too.

“Well enough, considering I didn’t expect to go toe to toe with black beasts today,” Hubert replies sarcastically.

“You and me both,” Byleth jokes, parroting his earlier response back to him. This draws a rare laugh out of him, though she can tell he’s trying to do so carefully as to not further aggravate his already hurting ribs.

A silence falls over them, and they each sit as comfortably as they can manage on the cold hard ground as they soak up the heat from the fire. There are a dozen questions racing through Byleth’s mind—none of which she can formulate a way to ask them to Hubert without fueling his own suspicions of her. _Why were there black beasts at the castle? Who was that warlock? Why did his skin look like that of Solon and Kronya? Can I_ really _believe that you did not know that’s what was waiting for us Castle Gerth?_

“I didn’t know there were more Relics than the ones of the 10 Elites,” she murmurs.

It’s not a question, but it’s true—in her past life, there was no talk of additional Relics or even that of these Four Apostles. Yet, somehow, a forgotten Relic lay unused and gathering dust in a castle here in the Empire the entire time? Now, it’s in their hands--well, Yuri’s left hand, more specifically. The ornate manacled piece fits him perfectly like a glove.

“You have one yourself,” Hubert replies, nodding his head back toward the tent where her blade lays. “The Sword of the Creator was wielded by Nemesis; he is not one of the 10 Elites.”

“But he led them,” Byleth corrects.

He nods, looking over at her from behind his fringe of raven hair. “That is true. He was gifted the Sword by the goddess, the other Relics were gifted to his band of soldiers. We know them now as the 10 Elites—heroes who fought against the evil darkness that descended from the north. Or, that is, as legend has it.”

“Legend?” She thinks back to all of the books that Seteth had her read. “But that’s what the scripture says.”

“And?’ Hubert replies, quirking an eyebrow. “The Church’s scripture was not written by the goddess herself. _The Book of Seiros_ was written by those who _believed_ they knew the goddess’ will. It’s nothing but a compilation of stories inspired by the goddess and her teachings… people wrongly believe that it was authored by a divine being. It sort of loses its sparkle when you realize that, doesn’t it? That’s why, to me, it is only legend.”

Byleth turns her head to look curiously at him. An odd take on things, sure, though not unexpected from Hubert. He and Edelgard obviously vehemently disagree with the teachings of the Church of Seiros.

“So by calling the scriptures merely legend, you’re implying there could be inaccuracies. Like that there were _more_ than just the 10 Relics?”

“Anything, legends or otherwise, penned by anyone other than the infallible goddess is fundamentally imperfect. Details may be left out or incorrect… stories perhaps _embellished_ to the author’s liking,” he elaborates with a wave of his hand. “Leaving out the Fetters of Dromi from the official count of Relics just seems to be an oversight. _Human_ error... if you will.”

Byleth hums. “I see.”

“Regardless, the semantics are not what we should be concerned with,” Hubert continues, poking the fire with the end of a long branch. The flames dance and the smoke swirls into the air.

“What do you mean?”

Hubert lowers his voice so that it’s only barely audible over the crackle of the fire, even to Byleth who is sitting near him. “What I _mean_ is that the leader of the Ashen Wolves not only bears a rare crest thought to be lost to history, but that he just so happened to tag along when the Relic associated with that crest was in question.”

“A Relic that is also tangled up with dark mages and black beasts, apparently,” Byleth quips back. Her eyes catch Hubert’s for a second, almost daring him to admit to his own entanglement with the dark mages. She knows he won’t—it’s too soon for him to admit his true allegiance to Edelgard’s coup just yet.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “That’s exactly why you should be concerned, Professor,” he whispers back. “The same people terrorizing the Abyssians and looking for that silly Chalice of Beginnings… also came here to Castle Gerth looking for that Relic of Yuri’s. It’s been bothering me all evening.”

“It’s unlike you to be bothered,” Byleth observes aloud, mostly to herself. _Why_ is _he so bothered by this?_

Hubert clears his throat. “It is,” he agrees simply. “It has been a tiring day for us all. You should go back to sleep, Professor.”

* * *

They return to Garreg Mach the following afternoon, Constance and Yuri both slipping away back down to Abyss while the others lead the horses across the drawbridge and onto the monastery grounds. Byleth tilts her head up to the clear sky above—the brilliant shade of blue in sharp contrast to the rich red and orange oak leaves that carpet the landscape. The sunlight warms her face pleasantly. If it weren’t for the autumn chill, she would consider sitting on the pier until nightfall with a fishing rod in hand.

Gravel crunches under her boots as they walk through the marketplace outside the entrance hall. The pink-haired merchant waves at her, and she smiles back. Felix and Dimitri stop at the blacksmith to hand over their weapons for repair as Hubert and Byleth continue on to the stables. She takes the extra horse from Dimitri, and she does her best to keep up with the tall dark-haired mage as they lead four horses total through the rather narrow marketplace on a bustling Sunday afternoon. Byleth isn’t entirely sure if it’s the juggling act she’s doing with the horses’ reins or if she’s wearing too many layers, but she feels the collar of her cloak sticking to her neck.

Right as they begin to lead the horses up the ramp toward the stables, the gatekeeper yells after her, nearly causing her to jump out of her skin.

“Professor Eisner!” he calls out, waving to her. She rises up on the balls of her feet to make better eye contact with him over the horse’s back. “Just wanted to notify you that Lord Seteth has summoned you.”

_Shit._

Hubert throws a glance back at her, his chartreuse eyes both curious and intense. “You’re not going to run off without helping me return these horses, are you?” Byleth knows that what he _really_ means to say is _‘you’re not going to run your mouth about where we’ve been, are you?’_ Hubert could care less about getting these horses to the stables.

Byleth shakes her head, a bead of sweat dripping down her brow as she pulls on the reins to lead the animals up the ramp. She knows all too well that all of them would be up to their knees in shit if Seteth finds out where they were last night.

The leather in her hands feels slippery, and Byleth trips over herself as her leading horse pulls ahead without her having a full grasp on the rein. She ignores Hubert’s grumbling as they make it to the stables and tie up the steeds. He unties her saddle bag and hands it to her, but the weight of it is… more than Byleth expected. She nearly drops it and Hubert gives her another serious look.

“Professor, are you alright?” he asks, sounding more annoyed than anything. Byleth thinks she’s nodding her head, but she’s not quite sure. Her chest feels tight and she can feel the saddle bag slipping from her grasp once more.

“Hey, now… are you sure you’re well, Professor?” he asks again, this time with concern. He lets the bag fall to the ground and instead grabs her shoulder firmly. While that does help her stop swaying, it proves little to stop her knees from giving out underneath her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Claude:** "Hilda, there are people dying."
> 
> Also peep Constance getting added to the tags 👀


	10. The Hermit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand arrives in Enbarr. Lysithea revisits an old book. Linhardt wants to put a theory to the test. Dimitri and Felix are keeping secrets. Byleth makes a promise. Hubert finally finds who he’s looking for.
> 
> "Who is it that can tell me who I am?”  
>  _-King Lear, 1.47.217_

Something cold is placed on Byleth's forehead, and she groans as her eyelids flutter open for just a second before falling shut again.

"Hey, kid," she hears her father say. Her… father? Her eyes slowly open again, squinting up at his face. "How are you feeling?"

Byleth opens her mouth to speak, but her mouth feels impossibility dry, like her throat is filled with sand.. "Father…" she croaks out. Her eyes widen again, but this time out of panic. She frantically pushes herself into an upright position, nearly falling off the cot in the process. "I'm, I'm… where am I?!"

Her father shushes her, a firm grip on her arm to keep her safely in bed. Byleth's surroundings slowly come into focus as she tries to take deeper breaths. She sees familiar faces—her father, Manuela… As she settles down, Jeralt rubs her back comfortingly while Manuela delicately brushes back the hair at her forehead. It's sticky and damp with sweat.

She then hands Byleth a cup of tea, something that smells too herbal to be palatable. "You're in the infirmary, dear. You fainted outside the entrance hall," Manuela explains.

Byleth looks up at her dumbly. "Fainted…" she repeats back. Her memory is fuzzy. The last she can remember is… is...

"Yes, but don't worry. You're in good hands with little ol’ me," Manuela smiles at her, giving her forearm a squeeze. She rises from her seat and brushes off her skirt. "Drink that and rest for a little. I'll leave so you two can talk."

She ushers the assistant on duty out of infirmary then exits herself, leaving only Byleth and Jeralt in the room. The sun was still out, its golden glow refracting through jars of flower buds and vulneraries. Byleth looks down at the cup of tea in her lap and dreads taking a sip.

"That Seteth wanted to get in here and bother you, y'know," her father tells her, with particular disdain on the  _ 'that Seteth' _ part. "Probably about where you've been for the last two days."

Byleth looks up at him with alarm. Her chest feels tight again. Jeralt seems to notice her reaction and quickly backpedals. "Don't worry, though. I told him to fuck off."

She finally exhales the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and it comes out more like a half-hearted laugh than anything. "Though I too am wondering where you went off to without telling anyone, not even your old man," her father adds. Byleth bristles at the disappointment in his voice.

"It's the weekend, what could Seteth want on my free days?" she asks rather harshly. "And I’m not a child—I’ve gone off on my own plenty of times without you knowing. It's not like you're ever around, anyway."

There's a moment of quiet as the sting of Byleth's words settle. 

Jeralt sucks in a breath, a hand on his knee. "Yeah, well I probably deserve that," he acknowledges. "Seteth actually told me a while back that I should talk to you more."

"And here you are."

“Yeah, here I am,” her father replies quietly after a beat. His hands lay folded in his lap, calluses and scars evident from years of wear and tear in combat. “And there's no such thing as free days when you work for the Church, kid.”

Byleth downs her cup of tea, scrunching up her face at the bitter taste. She lets her head fall back on the pillow, willing herself  _ not  _ to roll her eyes at Jeralt’s fatherly comment. While she’s not sure about the Church part, he’s right about not having any days for leisure. Every day is spent being a dutiful professor to her students, while struggling to unravel a knotted web of mysteries surrounding the events leading up to the very real threat of war… and the other very real threat of...

  
  


_ “Sorry. It looks like...I'm going to have to leave you now.” _

_ It feels like the wind is knocked out of her lungs as she races to him, her knees colliding with the muddy ground as she holds onto his cloak so tightly. Not tightly enough. She really can’t breathe. Rain starts to fall softly around them, the sky weeping…she, too… weeping. _

  
  


“You know, Seteth’s also told me that this isn't the first time you've fainted,” her father remarks, shaking Byleth out of the painful memory. She curls her fingers around the bed linens to orient herself to the present moment.

“How could he possibly know that?” she wonders aloud, though sharper than she intended to come off. Any sadness leftover from recalling that fateful day at the chapel ruins is quickly swept away by equal parts panic, dread, and vexation. She’s only fainted all but once before, anyway. _That day in the greenhouse…_ _and, that day in the training grounds? No—I was hit in the head._ And both of those times, she didn’t tell Seteth nor did she end up in the infirmary. _Unless I’m forgetting something entirely..._

“I don’t know, kid. But are you sure you're alright?” Jeralt asks.

Byleth nods. “I'm fine.”

_ I don’t know anymore, father. _

She ponders for a moment. About nothing in particular—and yet, at the same time, everything and all. Something deep inside Byleth compels her to just blurt out what’s weighing on her unbeating heart. She doesn’t think it’s Sothis—she can’t see or hear her today. And perhaps it’s for the best that the goddess isn’t around for when she opens her mouth, because she’d certainly give Byleth an earful about it.

“Have you ever been down to Abyss?” she asks, completely changing the topic.

Jeralt looks at her blankly for a moment. Byleth even begins to wonder if he ever heard her properly, but then his brow knits into one of dissatisfaction. “Please don't tell me you're running around down there, Byleth.” While his words are a request, his tone says otherwise—it’s a stern warning that she absolutely should not be in Abyss.

“Well I am,” she murmurs. “The people down there need help, so that's what I'm doing.” Byleth cringes slightly, preparing herself for a swift reprimand from her father. He takes a measured breath, looking up at the ceiling as if to ask the goddess why his daughter was possessed to do such a thing.

“If Seteth or Lady Rhea find out—”

“I'll lose my position as professor? I doubt it,” Byleth cuts him off. She realizes she’s been rather on edge since waking, and therefore quite smart with her father. After a pause to gather herself, she softens her voice as she continues. “They already lost Professor Jeritza. And Rhea seems to like me.”

Jeralt shakes his head, clearly upset. “It's still a bad idea. Those aren't people you should worry yourself with helping.”

Byleth is taken aback by her father’s condemnation of the Abyssians. Her father is the most principled and just person she knows—always in service to others, especially those less fortunate. How could he know of the plight of those and Abyss and turn their back on them? It baffles her.

“Are they, father? I met this monk for the Church… he  _ cares  _ for the people of Abyss. His name is Aelfric.  _ He  _ thinks the Abyssians are worth helping... are worth disagreeing with Rhea over,” she argues.

A sudden silence falls between them. Jeralt’s expression is unreadable.

“Aelfric said he knows you,” Byleth adds softly, hugging the cot blanket to her chest. “And that he knew my mother.”

Her father purses his lips and swallows, nodding his head slowly. “I… I remember Aelfric,” he admits. “He is a good man.”

A warmth blooms in Byleth’s heart at her father’s judgement of Aelfric—it feels like whatever entanglement she’s a part of in Abyss is fate. An opportunity to aid in Aelfric’s mission to better the lives of those underground, one that she missed in her past life. And a chance to gain new allies in her quest for a peaceable Fódlan… as well as a chance to learn more about her mother.

“He told me about mom's favorite flowers,” Byleth tells him. “Her favorite books and her favorite songs to sing. Her favorite food. About how excited she was to hear your stories from every mission and corner of Fódlan you and the Knights traveled to.”

Jeralt doesn’t respond or react, his face stony.

“How come you never told me any of these things about her?”

He rubs his hand over his mouth and beard. “I think because it wasn't easy for me to remember,” he murmurs, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. Byleth feels a pang of sadness at her father’s expression; she remembers what Dimitri told her in the library that night—that after losing someone you love so dearly, even the happiest memories can be excruciatingly painful. “Byleth, I loved your mother very much. She was my whole world. Not a day goes by that I miss her.”

Byleth reaches out and squeezes his hand. She can tell that he’s holding back tears.

“I know, father.”

_ I miss her, too,  _ she so badly wants to say.  _ Is it possible to miss someone you've never met? _

“Father… both Aelfric and Alois told me that mother was often unwell,” Byleth starts. She pauses, thinking carefully about how to word what she wants to say. “That she was… sick. With my fainting… do I share her illness?”

Aelfric had described her mother, Sitri, as so frail that she couldn’t even leave the monastery. That it wasn’t uncommon for her to be bedridden with illness. Alois also described her mother’s failing health—it being so prominent a feature about her that it stands out to him even though they were never anything more than acquaintances. Byleth thinks of this fainting spell and the one in the greenhouse… her growing sleeplessness and vivid, sometimes horrific dreams… and how it takes her longer and longer to physically recover after each time she uses a Divine Pulse. Will she be just like her mother someday? So ill and weak that she cannot command a battlefield nor travel outside of Garreg Mach?

“I guess I don't know, Byleth. You've always been so strong and healthy… And you always did have crazy dreams, but don't all kids?” Jeralt thinks aloud, shaking his head in doubt. “Don't you think you're just stressed?”

_ Stress. If only you knew the half of it, father. _ “Could be,” Byleth replies as she looks off out the window across the room. “My crest… did mother share my crest?”

Her father scratches his beard. “No… well, I guess I never knew for sure. Maybe she did—she grew up at the monastery as an orphan and never knew her real parents. Maybe the Crest of Flames was in her bloodline unbeknownst to both of us,” he supposes with a shrug of his shoulders.

Byleth looks down at the bunched up linens in her hands. She studies the weave of the fabric to distract from the frustrating feeling of being just out of reach of any semblance of an answer. “If we have the same crest, could that be why we're both sick?” she asks, looking weakly at her father. “You have the Crest of Seiros, and you are perfectly well—”

“You shouldn't worry yourself, Byleth,” he cuts her off. Jeralt rises from his seat and stretches. “Just make sure you listen to Manuela and go to her immediately if you faint again. You're probably just not getting enough sleep because you're running around Abyss all night.”

There’s two knocks at the infirmary door before it slides open, revealing Manuela. She smiles at them, then plucks Byleth’s empty teacup from the edge of her cot. Jeralt bends down and ruffles the hair on Byleth’s head.

“And don't worry, I won't tell Seteth what you've been up to,” he promises her with a wink. Manuela overhears and laughs while she prepares another cup of herbal healing tea. Byleth doesn’t say anything, though—she doesn’t even offer a nod or a shrug. She just feels… exhausted.

Her father sighs at her non-response. “You don't have to save the world, kid. Take it easy. And hey, look at me,” he tells her. Reluctantly, Byleth raises her head to look up at him. Jeralt smiles at her like everything was fine—like nothing mattered, like nothing could  _ possibly  _ happen to him or her. A smile meant to comfort only hurt her instead.

“I'll be at the monastery through the Battle of the Eagle and Lion—do your old man proud, okay?”

  
  
  


* * *

On the fourth day, Ferdinand arrives at the Aegir’s second home in Enbarr with a few hours of daylight to spare. He leads Capilet to the stables out back and is greeted by two of the stablehands—Hans and Rolf. They’re all smiles, both genuinely glad to see him again. It had been several months since he’d last been home, now.

They fawn over Capilet, giving her bits of carrot—her favorite—and ask him how he’s been liking his studies at the Academy. He puts on a smile and shares with the two boys all the good parts. Ferdinand intentionally leaves out how he had to kill Faerghan civilians, slay a man-turned-demonic beast, and fight against the future Emperor’s secret army as it continues to invade Garreg Mach.

The stablehands are around his age, and have been working for the Aegirs as long as Ferdinand can remember. They all learned how to ride on horseback together as children, and they were always there to help tend to Capilet and the other horses. Ferdinand has always enjoyed their company, despite their differing statuses in life. The boys were kind—dare he even consider them friends.

But after reading his father’s journal entries, he can’t look at them without searching their faces for features similar to his own. Similar to his father. Is Hans the crestless child that his father wrote about? Is Rolf? How many other children has his father sired over the years?  _ And the girl… _

“Ferdinand!”

He turns to see his father walking toward the stables. It takes every bit of Ferdinand’s focus to stop his hands trembling. His hand tightens around the strap to his saddlebag, knowing that his father’s journal is tucked away inside it.

“What an excellent surprise to see you! Just in time for dinner. The Hevrings are over, as well,” he explains, motioning behind him to the house. “Now come, let’s have you get washed up. The Count and I would love to hear all about your accomplishments at the Academy, my son.”

Ferdinand nods, waving goodbye to Hans and Rolf. He follows his father up the stone path to his family’s home.

_ Your son,  _ Ferdinand thinks dourly.  _ One of how many others? _

The first to greet him is his mother with a peck on the cheek, much to his embarrassment as Count Hevring was standing in the foyer to witness it. He’s positive his face is beet red when he goes in to give the Minister of Domestic Affairs a handshake. The Countess is around the corner from the sitting room, followed by the pattering paws of Derick and Donner as the two hounds nearly trip her as they race over to Ferdinand. He kneels down and gives Derick a scratch behind the ear, while allowing Donner to slobber all over his face as the 18-year-old hunting dog tends to do when he’s excited.

Ferdinand’s mother calls over one of the house servants to bring his saddle bag up to his quarters, but he nervously declines knowing the contents. He knows they would unpack for him, taking his laundry to the wash and laying out his clothes for the next day… and the thought that they would stumble across his father’s journal and possibly return it to him—utterly terrifying. He assures his mother that he can manage himself, despite her insistence. He climbs the stairs, Donner whining after him. The poor dog isn’t as spry as he used to be, his joints too achy to make it up the steps. Ferdinand reminds himself to slip some dinner scraps to him later.

Turning down the hallway to his family’s quarters, his younger sister Luisa comes barrelling out of her room. She nearly tackles him to the ground with a fierce hug; afterall, she had not seen him at their father’s ball, so it’d been moons since they’d last seen each other. “‘Nand,” his sister exclaims, her freckled cheeks dimpling as he grins ear to ear, “you’ve went and gotten taller!” She holds out her hand to gesture the scant inch he’s gained since leaving for the Academy.

“Hardly,” he laughs, ruffling her ginger hair.

“Hey, stop that,” Luisa pouts, pulling away from his gloved hand. “I’m not a child anymore, I’ll have you know.”

His sister is right—she’ll turn fifteen in a few moons. And while she teases him about his height, she had a huge spurt of her own since he’s last been home; she’s nearly eye-level with him. Luisa folds her arms and gives him a smug look, and for a moment she reminds Ferdinand of Lysithea back at the Academy—young, but smart beyond her years, and full of fiery determination. Not to mention a temper that gets her into trouble sometimes.

“Well anyway, you picked the best day to show up. Now I won’t be stuck sitting next to Linhardt at dinner,” she tells him, rolling her eyes. Ferdinand hums, not realizing that all of the Hevrings were here. He didn’t even see Linhardt downstairs when he arrived. “Now c’mon, put your bag in your room. We’re having pheasant tonight and you know that’s my favorite.”

Ferdinand drops his saddle bag in his room and unbuttons it, digging through his wrinkled clothes from the days prior until he finds the black leather journal. He tucks it between the frame of his bed and the mattress—satisfied that it will be safe and secure there. After changing out of his riding pants and boots into clean slacks and loafers, he heads downstairs to join Luisa, his parents, and the Hevrings.

Dinner is uneventful. Ferdinand occupies the seat between Luisa and Linhardt per his sister's request. And while it's uncomfortable to sit next to someone as actively and openly disinterested in the table conversation as Linhardt… he's thankful he doesn't have to sit by his father. Especially with the contents of those journal pages weighing so heavily on his mind.

He pushes bits of pheasant and berries around his plate with his fork. Growing up, Ferdinand was always told how important his crest was. The rulers of prominent noble families bore crests, his father always said. It’s not lost on him the value a crest brings to a noble family in terms of securing wealth, status, and political power. However, his father’s scribbled journal entries made him consider crests in an entirely different light.

The pride he once held for bearing a crest now made him feel unease, knowing that's all his father desired in an heir. His stomach turns each time the Duke turns and speaks to his mother…  _ He was going to leave her, _ he recalls.  _ It's only because I was born with a crest that father stayed. _ That realization is a weight that is suffocating atop his shoulders.

Ferdinand glances over at Linhardt who has gone the entire meal without a single word. It is not unlike him to do so—in fact, he's really only ever been chatty and sociable when he's at the Academy, Ferdinand has noticed.

The last real conversation the two of them had was the night of the Aegir’s ball a few moons ago. They had gotten into a petty disagreement of some sort, and it ended in Linhardt calling him a self-righteous and self-serving noble among nobles. That moniker hhad bothered him so—especially coming from Linhardt who so flippantly disregarded, and at times shunned, the expectations of a crested heir of a noble family of the Empire. He feels silly now, thinking back.

He also thinks of his dearest sister Luisa, who is crestless—how she flits about so free. Instead of learning about governance, trade, and combat, she is being trained in the art of being a lady. Embroidery, poetry, gardening, languages, piano… She is free to be whoever she wants to be and do whatever she desires. Ferdinand would never be permitted to pursue anything other than his father’s title of Prime Minister. The same is true for Linhardt, the heir to House Hevring and the bearer of the Crest of Saint Cethleann. And yet, Linhardt resists his inherited destiny. Instead of preparing to one day rule his house and take over his father’s role as minister… he buries his nose in books and furthers his crest research, ironically studying the very thing he rebels so stubbornly against.

If Ferdinand were to perish in battle or, goddess forbid, renounce his titles and move to a land far away from the Empire… the Aegirs would still have an heir in Luisa, though she would be crestless. He wonders... if that were to occur, would their father regret what happened to that house servant's daughter? Or are there others out there  _ with  _ crests, just in case something happened to him? Ferdinand watches as Linhardt blots his mouth with the fabric of his napkin. His classmate doesn't have any siblings; as the Hevrings' only child, Linhardt is their only hope for continuing their legacy. Ferdinand wonders darkly if the Count has other heirs in waiting, too.

Everyone in the house settles in for the night, the sky having been an inky black for hours now. The sun sets earlier in the evenings now that it's autumn, the air pleasantly cool unlike the muggy, sticky nights of summertime in Enbarr. Most of the windows in the house were open to allow the breeze to flutter the drapes. Ferdinand turns down the second-floor hallway, ready to change into his night clothes and fish out his father’s journal to continue reading.

Unfortunately, his father deters those plans. The Duke is standing in his office, a smaller room than his study back home in Aegir, but no less lavish and cluttered. A crystal glass of amber liquid is in his left hand as he calls after Ferdinand through the open door. He turns back into his father’s study, the smell of scotch perfuming the room. His father offers to pour him a glass, but Ferdinand politely declines. He never has fancied alcohol, anyway.

"Suit yourself, then," the Duke says before taking a swig of his own drink. "But please, stay a while. Your father is curious about how the Black Eagles are faring in their preparations for the upcoming Battle of the Eagle and Lion."

Ferdinand steps reluctantly onto the plush pelt of the bear rug in the center of the office. He can’t stop himself from thinking of what Professor Byleth told him… of the future of Fódlan that exists just over the horizon. Since learning of this terrifying possible fate, he started to abstain from preparations for the upcoming battle. The idea of the house battle repulses him now; the thought of holding even a wooden training lance to one of his fellow classmates fills him with dread.  _ Would the next time be for blood in the name of war? _

Of course, he can’t tell any of those details and fears to his father—he  _ did  _ promise Byleth as much. So instead, in a moment that is so unlike himself, Ferdinand shrugs and admits to his father that he wishes he did not have to participate. As soon as the confession leaves his mouth, he regrets it. His father nearly drops his scotch out of shock; thoroughly prepared for the worst, Ferdinand is surprised when the Duke laughs.

“Oh Ferdinand, this is nothing to jest about,” he says with a wave of his hand. He leans back into his wooden desk and takes a more serious tone and expression. “As I once did, and my father before me…  _ all  _ of the Aegirs have fought valiantly in the Battle of the Eagle and Lion—you too will participate, Ferdinand. You are my eldest child, the legitimate heir of the Aegir fortune and seat of Prime Minister—”

“Your  _ legitimate  _ heir?” Ferdinand says through a clenched jaw.

The Duke does not find any humor in his son’s second errant remark of the evening. His golden eyes harden. “Is that not what I said?” he replies resolutely, his tone firm and commanding. _ It would not be prudent to press into that matter any further, _ Ferdinand thinks to himself.  _ After all, I know things that I should not. _

He only promised the Professor that he’d remain quiet until the end of this moon, after the conclusion of the house battle. Ferdinand  _ never  _ promised her that he’d ask his father about Hrym, the Insurrection, or the Hresvelgs—she had insisted that he do so, and it made little sense then. It still doesn’t make much sense now. But here he is, standing before his father, Duke Aegir, and running his tongue so thoughtlessly…

Ferdinand never thought that he would entertain the Professor’s suggestions. If it wasn’t for her insistence nagging him for days, he wouldn’t have gotten on his horse and rode down to Enbarr. He wouldn’t have stopped at his family’s estate in Aegir to rummage through his father’s belongings—he wouldn’t have stolen his father’s journal! He wouldn’t know of the others tossed aside as his parents waited for his birth. He wouldn’t be so awfully and terribly curious about what other horrible secrets he might uncover in those pages.  _ Damn the Professor, _ he glowers. If it wasn’t for her insistence, he wouldn’t be as glib as he is now, in the face of his own  _ father, _ no less.

“As your legitimate heir, will you not tell me what happened in Hrym, father?”

Duke Aegir laughs again, though dryly this time. “Why do you bring this up, Ferdinand? You  _ know  _ what happened in Hrym,” he remarks, nursing his drink. “They rebelled against the yoke of the Emperor’s rule. You know, I and the other ministers never blamed them. But treason is treason.”

Ferdinand lowers his eyes to the rug beneath his feet. He knows the rest of the story—the disappearance of the Hrym family amongst the chaotic quell of the rebellion as the attempt to secede was extinguished swiftly. His father had always blamed the destruction on the Emperor—it was his fault that Hrym wanted to join the Alliance, but it was also his fault for violently responding to a peaceful attempt at secession. In his father’s mind, the Emperor was the true traitor. 

“And like always, I was there to clean up the mess. Things you will have to do once you become Prime Minister one day,” his father points at him. 

“What about Hrym now? Once more, they have no ruling house. Our professor at the Academy…” Ferdinand shakes his head. Perhaps the Professor  _ is  _ right… he never really considered what would happen in Hrym after the events involving Professor Jeritza, the Death Knight, came to light.

“Oh yes, word has traveled about his  _ incident,” _ the Duke remarks with a roll of his eyes. “Jeritza von Hrym—a  _ disgrace  _ to the Empire. You know, neither the Church nor my Knights have been able to track him down. Such a shame.”

The Duke uncaps the bottle of scotch and refills his glass. The stopper falls to the floor, but he hardly seems to notice.

“That man never was fit to govern those lands, to begin with. Besides, he ran off to teach at the Academy not long after he was adopted into that family—some distant cousin or whatnot. It was all Lord Arundel’s suggestion that he become a professor. I only agreed to Arundel’s proposition because it would be easier for me to continue governing the region in his place than try to teach some pathetic excuse for nobility to learn the art of governance.

_ Continue governing? How long has this been going on? If Hrym is truly a House Aegir territory, surely I would have been trained in governing the area…  _ Ferdinand wonders, his mind racing.  _ And Lord Arundel…  _ After witnessing first-hand that Arundel is in league with the Flame Emperor, so it is no surprise to him that he pushed for the Death Knight to go to Garreg Mach to begin with.  _ How could my father not have known? _

“But enough talk about that—I have been meaning to ask what you think of Edelgard,” his father changes the topic, leaning forward with his glass of scotch, his face red and expression indeterminable.

Ferdinand blinks. “Edelgard?” he repeats.

“Yes—you are studying alongside her in the same house, are you not?” the Duke snorts. “I have been dying to know… do you  _ really  _ think she is capable of being an emperor to Adrestia one day?”

“I think so,” Ferdinand lies. He does his best to keep his expression neutral as he thinks of Lord Arundel handing her the helmet and robes of the Flame Emperor. “She and I do not speak much; she does not seem to like me.”

His father laughs again, the scent of alcohol strong on his breath that Ferdinand can smell it from where he’s standing a few feet away. If it wasn’t for the scotch, he knows that the Duke would most definitely not be laughing at such a remark. “So, _that_ is the reason she did not attend our ball last moon? Saints, Ferdinand—it is foolish to ruin your relationship with her if you are to be her Prime Minister one day.”

_ No, the reason she didn’t attend… was  _ you, _ father. For some reason that I have yet to fully understand. _

“Why did you not have one of Edelgard’s siblings attend?” he asks instead. 

“Ferdinand—you know that Edelgard has been selected as the emperor’s successor. There would be no purpose in inviting any of them.”

Yes, Ferdinand knows this already. He knows that the Insurrection scattered the Imperial consorts and the Hresvelg children for their safety. He knows that some of them did return to the Empire afterward… and despite all of that, Emperor Ionius IX selected Edelgard as his successor despite her eight elder siblings, three of them with crests! So  _ why _ Edelgard? Was it because Oda passed and Wilhelmina separated from him? In his father’s journal, he  _ did  _ write that Anselma—Edelgard’s mother—was his favorite. And with Eleonora and Bertram being too young and without crests… could that be why Edelgard was selected over the others?

“What about Gelfrid and Hildegund?” Ferdinand gives his father a challenging look. He doesn’t know if his father knows the emperor’s reasoning, but the thought is now a thorn in his side that he must pluck out. “Steffan, even—they all are older than Edelg—”

“You ask too many questions, Ferdinand,” his father cuts him off sternly. “A Prime Minister tells people what to do, not bother them with silly questions.”

Feeling emboldened, Ferdinand stands his ground. “No, I  _ want  _ to know, father,” he presses. “I have been wondering… why is Steffan not at the Academy with us this year? Why has it been  _ years  _ since we have spent the summer in Morgaine with Cecilia and Greta, Hildegund and Gelfrid… they were like cousins to Luisa and I!”

He feels the prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes, and he blinks deliberately to rid himself of them. How shameful that he cry over something like this, over longing for memories of the past. Ferdinand misses those summers with a fondness—the days where the Hresvelgs and Aegirs were like  _ family. _ Nowadays, his father is always at odds with the Emperor, and Ferdiand has not done much better. In fact, he’s done worse—at this point, he and Edelgard are actual enemies.

“It is not your place to speculate or meddle in the affairs of the royal family,” his father swiftly corrects him in his commanding tone. “Whom the emperor chooses to send to the Academy is his choice alone. And they were not your real cousins, Ferdinand. Their mother left the royal family after the Insurrection—it is her fault that they wish nothing to do with us anymore.”

“You blame  _ her  _ for wanting to leave?” Ferdinand quips back, raising his voice and startling himself by doing so. “After being forced out of her home—”

The Duke slams a fist into the front of his wooden desk, the sound enough for Ferdinand to stop talking. “I will not listen to you tell me what happened back then,” he booms, absolutely fuming. “You have no idea what I have given to ensure a future for Adrestia… a future for  _ you  _ to inherit one day. All so that we could retain the prestige and heritage of the Aegir name, so that the people of Adrestia did not have to be crushed under the thumb of tyranny.”

“Which is it, father? For the people of Adrestia, or for yourself?”

Another slam of the fist causes Ferdinand to straighten up. He can feel his mouth twitching with how much tension he’s carrying in his jaw. The Duke pushes away from his spot leaning against the desk and steps closer to him so that they are eye to eye. “How  _ dare  _ you disrespect me,” he warns, spittle hitting Ferdinand’s cheek.  _ “Everything _ I have done, I have done for the Empire. Such is my duty—”

“Your duty was to exile the Emperor's children? How can you speak of protecting  _ this  _ family when you dismantled theirs?” Ferdinand interrupts. One of his hands waves animatedly in the air while the other is curled into a fist at his side. He cannot remember a time where he dared argue like this with anyone—much less his father. But he shoves his fear aside despite it all, his anger and confusion bubbling over in the moment. “How is it fair that I get to attend the Academy, yet Gelfrid does not? That Edelgard attends, but without her sisters… that Luisa and I no longer get to visit our friends?”

The Duke’s face is red as he closes the gap between him and his son, his arm swinging with a precision that belies someone who has downed well over a half-pint of scotch. His breath comes out in puffs as Ferdinand clutches his left cheek. Ferdinand is nearly the same height as his father now, but even still, his father looks down on him. He notices that his shirt sleeve is damp with scotch, undoubtedly from it splashing out his father’s ornate crystal glass when he struck him. A metallic taste fills his mouth where he accidentally bit the inside of his lip.

“Do you know what is fair, Ferdinand?” his name venomous on his father’s tongue. “Nothing.  _ Nothing _ in this world is fair. Gold… crests… a noble name… not one of those things are given freely,” the Duke explains, spittle landing on Ferdinand’s face and hair as he punctuates each thing. “They are  _ earned. _ And if you are blessed enough to acquire them, you do everything you can to keep them.”

Ferdinand winces. Being born with a crest, being born into wealth or a noble family... How can his father consider such things to be earned when they happen at the goddess’ will? His thoughts wander to the torn pages from the Duke’s journal—the pages torn out and stowed away from the light of day in a dark desk drawer under lock and key.  _ He had always felt this way,  _ Ferdinand knows now. The Aegir legacy was a distinction to be earned… a collection of riches, crested children, and political titles for the sake of his father’s own prosperity, not that of the people.

“And yet,” Ferdinand murmurs, his face still sore and aching, “you call the Emperor a tyrant for wanting the same thing…”

His father strikes him again, his hand colliding with the side of his face doubly this time. Once for disrespect and the second for dishonor. Ferdinand is unable to do anything but freeze up. He cowers pathetically, his eyes scrunched shut, but his feet can’t move and neither can his arms to shield himself or swing back. Tingling numbness seeps through his body, starting in his limbs and creeping up like pins and needles. He feels a whimper or cry caught at the back of his throat, aching and making it difficult for him to swallow the blood filling his mouth again.

Ferdinand opens his eyes and makes a soundless gasp for air. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, crimson blooms and bleeds into the golden stains left on his shirt from his father’s scotch. Some of the blood falls to the bear skin rug beneath his feet. He straightens up but doesn’t look his father in the eye. He can hear the glass being set on the desk and the creak of floorboards as his father’s footsteps move toward the door to his study. 

_ If I didn't have a crest, father, would you just banish me, too?  _ Ferdinand asks himself, too pitiable and too cowardly to dare ask it aloud.

“Be sure to get one of the house servants in here to clean up before you go to bed,” his father orders him before closing the door behind him, leaving Ferdinand alone, lip still bleeding and mind still fraught. He paces over to the fallen stopper over by his father’s desk and stoops down to pick it up, the cork smooth in his hand. He places it back into the decanter, then leaves the study and makes his way to the washroom, careful to hold his sleeve to his mouth to capture any errant drops of blood onto his mother’s prized Rusalkan rugs in the hallway.

  
  


* * *

The fireplace bathes the Ordelias' sitting room in a warm glow as it crackles away. Nights are colder now with the first snows of winter only a moon away. Even curled up on the tufted sofa before the fire, Lysithea is bundled in a chunky knit sweater.

She always has “run cold,” as her mother puts it. When she was a child, she would often wake in the middle of the night with shivers so bad that she had to nestle in the covers with her parents to stop the tremors. In the winters, there were seldom enough layers to keep her warm enough to play outside with other children her age. And in the summers, her peers would give her odd looks for preferring long sleeves and knitted tights, even on the hottest of days. She never paid the judgemental stares and comments any mind, though. After all, her perennial choice of attire serves a dual purpose—to keep her body temperature up, and to cover the myriad of scars that mark her body.

And tonight, her deepest scars are achy. They have been since dinner.

“It’s going to rain,” Lysithea tells her parents as the house servants clean up their plates and silverware. She rubs her thigh with the heel of her palm, trying to work out the soreness of the scar tissue there.

Her grandfather would always say that he could feel the rain coming in his bones, and Lysithea never knew what he meant until she got older. Now, the silver marks on her skin always seem to inflame when rain was blowing in. She remembers how Catherine told her that their Crests of Charon bring about rain whenever they need fair weather—perhaps the predictive ache of her scars is yet another consequence of her crest. Another pitiful, awful reminder.

After dinner, her mother tends to her scars in the second floor bathroom. Stripping down her to small clothes, Lysithea immediately begins to shiver until her mother drapes a warmed towel around her shoulders. She clutches the ends of it to her chest as her mother applies a thick golden paste to the largest raised scars on her legs. The salve smells overpoweringly earthy and herbal, and it stains her porcelain skin a bright yellow, but it’s soothing on her tender scars. The aroma fills the bathroom, and it is a comforting and familiar scent, one that she’s missed from being away from home for the last few months.

While any of the house servants or a hired caregiver could easily manage the task of tending to Lysithea’s scars, her mother always insisted on doing so herself over the years. Every time Lysithea would cry or complain that her scars were hurting her, her dear mother was quick to mix up the salve and apply it delicately to her marred skin.

Herbalism was her mother’s particular brand of magic; both the cost and care that her mother puts into this yellow salve are precious to Lysithea. Not to mention, the spices and herbs used in her special ointment are difficult and expensive to procure—since they are native to Fódlan’s neighboring nation, Almyra, the prices are exorbitant due to the strict embargos on many Almyran goods. The fact that her parents—one of the five noble families of the Alliance—continually put themselves at risk of having their illegal acquisitions discovered by the other nobles for her sake… it makes her heart swell with gratitude, yes. But the thought is also enough to make her weep.  _ As if I could ever have enough time to repay them for all they’ve done for me, _ she thinks to herself.

Her father draws a hot bath for her just as her mother begins wiping away the thick golden paste that had begun to dry on the skin of her legs and arms. Lysithea’s teeth chatter for a moment before she settles herself into the steaming bathwater. Her mother adds oils and herbs to the tub, swirling them around with her fingertips before she prepares a folded towel and a stack of warm night clothes.

Lysithea plucks a cluster of dried leaves from the surface of the water. It’s leaves are bundled like little knots on the short stem. She brings it to her nose to smell the woody and bright aroma— _ marjoram, _ she deduces.  _ Excellent for soothing aches and pains, as well as for calming the mind and body from stress, worry, and fatigue. _

Perhaps in another life, she would have followed in her mother’s footsteps—using magic and botany together as a practitioner or healer.

But as Lysithea rises from the now tepid bathwater and the shivers set in as she looks at her nude figure in the mirror… the gnarled silver and purple scars marring her flesh are a reminder of the path forced upon her. A path of cursed magic.

Not healing magic like her mother’s or like Mercedes’ and Linhardt’s. Not elemental magic like Annette or Lorenz. Cursed magic.  _ Killing _ magic.

After convincing her parents to allow her to attend the Officer’s Academy early, Lysithea has studied night and day to learn black and white magic. Those schools or magic are not difficult for her to learn, it’s just not her predisposition. The scolding she received from Seteth after the mock battle only urged her to study and practice harder. It is not like she enjoyed or wanted to cast those spells… not that he or anyone at the Church would ever understand that. Thankfully, it was easy enough to teach herself how to cast Heal, as well as some fire and thunder spells, rather quickly after that.

And while she usually _ despises _ asking for help, Lorenz did help her learn Nosferatu on the weekends a few moons ago. She’s still irked that Hilda was able to cast bolting so flippantly—a spell she had been studying and trying to master for _ half a year  _ now. But Sylvain lent her his Seraphim tome after that incident in class the other day, so that makes up for it slightly. If she can learn that and maybe even a wind spell, Lysithea will finally have mastered a  _ normal  _ spell set, so as to never have to use dark magic again.

But she knows she’s not the only one at the Academy with dark talents. She’s seen Hubert cast Mire before. Most of the other students are scared of him for other reasons, but his ability to use dark magic is reason enough for Lysithea to steer clear of him. Her father always told her that suspicions are never worth the time or energy... but after the kidnappings last moon, can she  _ really  _ fault herself for being wary of Hubert and others that use that sort of magic?

After she was discharged from the infirmary, Annette had told her and Mercedes over lunch what they did to her—or what she could recall, anyway. They gave her tinctures that made her sleep, and when she woke there were puncture wounds all over her arm. Lysithea runs her fingertips over the raised scar tissue on the inside crease of her own elbow at the thought. _ Saints… to think if Professor Byleth and the Black Eagles did not arrive there when they did... _

Lysithea knows why she is cursed with the ability to cast dark magic. Something vile and unnatural permeates her blood… a curse that accompanies her two crests. To think that something so wicked now comes as naturally as breathing to her is shameful. Hubert on the other hand… she shudders at the thought of him crossing paths with the people that did this to her, and tried to do the same to Annette and Flayn that day underground. Did he come to learn that magic by choice? Or by force, like in her case?

After drying off and dressing in her nightclothes, Lysithea pads out to the sitting room to curl up on the couch before the fire. The sun has since set, the rain finally blowing through. Rumbles of thunder off in the distance coupled with the steady rhythm of the raindrops on the window glass is like a soothing berceuse.

She thumbs through the yellowing pages of an old tome she retrieved from her family’s extensive private collection of books and texts. It’s title names itself a collection of fables, but the stories inside are nothing more than stories meant to scare little children or give a thrill to more grown readers. Lysithea had the displeasure of flipping through the pages of this particular book naively when she was younger, and the tales were quite terrifying and gave her nightmares for weeks on end—even to this day, mentions of ghosts and night creatures make her heart race in a panic.

The logical side of her  _ knows  _ that these stories are nothing but that—just stories. Ghosts cannot exist, since people’s souls reside with the goddess above when they die; her father would console her and reassure her of that often as a child. And tales of shapeshifting wolf men and sea serpents surely haven’t substantiated beyond the words found on the pages of books like this one, or the drunken stories told amongst mercenaries and sailors in bars.

But part of her always wonders. Maybe it’s just irrational fear, or maybe it’s because one tale from this book has been nagging at her for a while now. Ever since Felix showed her that odd blue crest stone, she has been trying to sort through her memories to figure out where exactly she saw that symbol before… When she showed it to Linhardt, it appeared as though he recognized it from somewhere, too, but he didn’t say and Lysithea didn’t want to pry. And she hasn’t been able to find him in the evenings after classes to ask.

Lysithea finds the page she’s looking for and smooths her hand over the pages to flatten the binding of the book in her lap. The fireplace bathes the text in a golden light as the late autumn thunderstorm persists outside the window, and she begins to read.

  
  


**_The Tale of the Wandering Beast_ **

_ Long ago, there was a young soldier from a humble family. He defended his territory from barbarians and non-believers. In his young days, he had taken many heads, many horses, and many trophies in the name of the goddess and in the defense of the faithful. He had increased his possessions through battle and hard dealings with invaders and heretics that were no match for his strength and cunning. _

_ As he grew older, he became a general. He was powerful and celebrated for his prowess on the battlefield all across the land of Fódlan. Although they admired his bravery, the soldiers in his legion did not love him, for he was a greedy man and would do anything and sacrifice any number of his own men to secure a victory for himself. He often prospered from the ills of others and the less fortunate. _

_ There was another commander of a neighboring territory that was beloved by the people of Fódlan, too. He also fought for the goddess, and his military renown had earned him riches and acclaim across the land, not dissimilar to the general. In fact, the general had fought alongside this commander when they were both young soldiers, and allied with him and his men even now. _

_ But the general quickly grew jealous of his ally. He began to grow fearful of the commander’s growing power and influence. Everyone spoke tales of how the goddess smiled onto him with gifts of vitality, weapons, and gold. The general envied the commander’s success and thought himself more deserving of these gifts from the goddess. Eventually, he decided to move against the commander. _

_ Under the cover of a cold winter night, as the commander and his men slept, the general snuck into their camp. He flew into a rage and took his blade to every one of the commander’s soldiers. Everyone in the camp was slain in cold blood at his hand. _

_ He entered the commander’s tent last. The general beat him unmercifully, breaking his legs in his fury, leaving him to die. After stealing the commanders’ blade and blood that was gifted to him from the goddess, he returned to his own camp without any remorse for his cruelty. _

_ When the general awoke the next day, he had renewed vigor and strength that rivaled that of his youth. The commander’s blade was now his, and he waged many battles across the lands of Fódlan to grow his riches and power with the stolen weapon in his hand. However, the soldiers in his legion started to resent him even more. They refused to follow his orders which had become increasingly wicked. _

_ In retaliation, the general had every tenth soldier killed to strike fear and obedience into his legion. When his soldiers tried to leave his ranks in an effort to escape his tyranny, he struck them down without remorse until there were no men left under his command. _

_ The goddess was so displeased with the general’s cruelty and greed, that she wept onto the lands of Fódlan. She cursed him to live out the remainder of time as an awful beast—a reflection of the monstrous sins against the goddess that he had committed. The beast now wanders the forests of Fódlan as the goddess’ punishment for straying from the righteous path. Never again would he have the power and riches that he so lusted after. _

_ Sometimes, they say, on a windy winter night when the Blue Sea Star has left the sky, you may hear the wandering beast crunch through the snow-covered fields. And, if you are very unlucky, you may cross paths with the beast if you are foolish enough to wander through the forest alone after dusk. _

  
  


Lysithea traces over the illustrations that accompany the story—sketches of a young soldier in chainmail, a curved blade with an ornate hilt that extends from the quillon down to an equally decorative pommel, and the general standing amongst a still field of dead bodies.

She lets her fingers rest upon the last sketch of the wandering beast. It’s a grotesque thing, scaled with too many teeth and protruding horns, standing against a backdrop of a starry night. The beast looks like it doesn’t have eyes, but Lysithea thinks it’s a fitting artistic and metaphorical representation… the general no longer able to covet as part of the goddess’ judgement.

Upon closer look, she draws in a breath at the detail in the inky night sky of the sketch. It’s faint, but the artist embellished the dark parts of the illustration with an emblem that hangs overhead of the beast. It looks faintly like a goat with two curved horns and a long face, crowned with a star atop its head.

_ That’s it, _ she thinks to herself,  _ that’s the crest from the blue stone. _ Lysithea shivers, but not because she’s cold. A deep unease settles into the pit of her stomach as she shuts the cover of the book. As she settles into bed that night, she tries to push thoughts of beasts and bloodshed from her head. This is the reason why she doesn’t read scary stories right before bed… or at all, really.

_ It’s just a silly legend that doesn’t mean anything, _ she tells herself as she tucks the end of her blanket under her feet. _ It’s in a book with stories about ghosts, lake monsters, and  _ dragons, _ for Seiros’ sake! It’s just a story meant to scare little girls and boys into not being jealous, greedy, or murderous… just a stupid legend… _

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

Ferdinand changes out of his white collared shirt, now stained with little specks of red, and into a looser-fitting linen nightshirt. After gingerly wiping his split lip with a damp muslin cloth in the washroom, he retires to his quarters for the evening. Despite the onset of autumn weather, nights are rather pleasant yet down here in Enbarr. He pushes the windowed doors to the balcony open and steps outside. There’s a breeze that is cool, yet comfortable.

And Linhardt.

“It feels like it's still summer down here. Makes me not want to go back to the Academy,” he comments, standing with his hands wrapped around the wrought iron railing and looking up at the night sky.

Ferdinand sighs, remembering that this is a shared balcony and that the Hevrings are spending the night. He folds his arms atop the railing, leaning into it. Clouds are blown by the wind across the sky, obscuring the stars and half moon. It’s muggier than it usually is this time of year in the Empire capital—rain was likely going to roll in later tonight.

“I can practically hear you thinking, Ferdinand. What's on your mind?” Linhardt speaks again. He props his chin up on one of his hands and looks over toward him with a straight-faced curiosity.

Ferdinand shakes his head. “Why us?” he blurts out, before pausing and collecting himself. He is still on edge from his confrontation with his father and how… openly he spoke to him. Regretfully so, as he left with a swollen lip and more questions than answers. “Why do our families visit each other and attend stupid balls and events together... but we  _ never _ see the Hresvelgs? Any of them, for any reason?”

“We see Edelgard at school all the time.”

“You know what I mean, Linhardt,” he insists firmly. “Do you not remember growing up and playing in the palace courtyard together, all of us kids?”

He remembers those times—days spent carefree as the salty breeze from the sea blew in over Enbarr. While the ministers were busy at work, the noble children would gather together and jump rope and hopscotch, play knights and bandits, or adventure through the winding hedges of the palace gardens. When court was in session during the summers, one of their mothers would eventually acquiesce and accompany the children to the beach… and when all of the noble families would retreat to the capital during the wintertime, the children would bicker amongst themselves to determine who would sit next to who during Church services.

Ferdinand suspects Linhardt recalls the same fond memories, as the corners of his mouth quirk up into a small smile. “Like how Dieterich and Hubert would help us if we scraped our knees?” the young mage asks wistfully. “And how Greta would make fun of Caspar for crying?”

“Exactly,” he nods, chuckling softly. They were always covered with scratches and bruises, it’s true—mostly because they tried to climb trees like the older boys when they were far too small to do so yet. Not that it stopped them from trying to scale the stone pines lining the courtyard grounds. “When was the last time you saw any of them?”

“I can't quite remember, now that you mention it,” Linhardt shakes his head. He rests his chin on his fists as he leans on the balcony railing. “It's been _ years.  _ Are they even living in Enbarr anymore? Maybe when they could return to the Empire, they went back to their hometowns?”

Ferdinand’s brow furrows. Obviously Edelgard returned to the Empire… but he’s  _ certain _ that he recalls seeing Deitrich and the youngest two Hresvelgs in Enbarr after she had returned from the Kingdom with her uncle. After the chaos of the Insurrection had settled. He and his sister Luisa asked their father where the other Hresvelg children went when they were younger, and he told them that they didn’t live at the palace anymore. A simple answer back then… not as much now that it has been troubling him.

So while Linhardt’s proposition would align with what the Duke said, it doesn’t make sense with his memory of the two youngest—Eleonora and Bertram. They were the children of the emperor’s fourth and last consort, Lady Rosalind von Ordelia. She is a cousin of the current Count Ordelia, and rumors around the capital at the time were that her engagement with the emperor was solely an attempt to strengthen the relationship between the Empire and Alliance.

Because of that, it was no surprise to anyone when, after the Insurrection, she formally separated from Emperor Ionius, along with  Wilhelmina , his second consort. It  _ would _ make sense then that she returned to Ordelia territory—but why leave behind her children in Enbarr? Unless Ferdinand wasn’t remembering correctly…  _ but I could have sworn… hmm... _

“That's plausible, but where would Lady Oda's children go? Back to Ruskala alone?” he asks, his mind wandering to the eldest Hresvelg children of the late consort.

Linhardt drums his fingers on his cheek in thought. “Hmm, you have a point. Maybe they are staying with cousins… or maybe they  _ really _ liked being a commoner in the Kingdom or Alliance,” he suggests plainly. “Less problematic than the Empire, and less pressure than being a noble.”

Ferdinand is silent for a long moment. The faintly metallic taste still lingers in his mouth, his split lip still stinging. If that’s what they desired—he cannot blame them, especially now. The majority of the Hresvelg children were crestless, in truth… coupled with being exiled during the Insurrection and all of their mothers either dead, missing, or separated from the Emperor… there would be little station left for them in Enbarr, unfortunately.

But still, four of the Hresvelgs bear crests: Steffan, youngest son of Oda, Hildegund, second daughter of  Wilhelmina , and Edelgard, only child of Anselma, all bore the Crest of Seiros; Gelfrid, eldest son of  Wilhelmina , bore the Crest of Cichol—the shared Saint’s bloodline being one of the Morgaine’s many ties to the Aegir family. Aside from Edelgard, where are they?

Perhaps Linhardt is right—they simply elected to renounce their claim to the throne in favor of a simpler, secluded life. Especially for Gelfrid and Hildegund, considering how the relationship between their mother and the emperor soured over time. It would make sense politically why the Emperor wouldn’t reward House Morgaine by selecting one of their bloodline to be his heir, despite them being royal crest-bearers… petty as it may be.

So if Steffan went to live the life of a commoner, shunning the tumultuous political climate of the Empire… and Gelfrid and Hildegund sided with their mother and renounced their claims… That would only leave Edelgard—only child of Anselma von Arundel. Or rather, the daughter of a dying minor lordship in the barren foothills of the Oghma Mountains, as his father describes in his journal. Anselma was the only consort to have little to no political motivations influencing their relationship with the emperor. While the Rusalkas and Morgaines were wealthy houses from vineyards and mining respectively, and the Ordelias were a connection to the burgeoning Leicester Alliance… House Arundel offered nothing—a lordship that relies on farming, yet their yields decline year after year as they have for the last two decades.

Edelgard wasn’t the most logical or political choice… thought it could very well be that she was his  _ only _ choice, if Linhardt’s assumptions are correct. But Ferdinand’s father wrote about how Anselma was Ionius’ favorite; could that have been his real motivation? True love? Can such a thing exist for a noble… much less an  _ emperor? _

But given the current Lord Arundel, Edelgard’s uncle, allying with her planned coup… maybe this was all  _ his  _ doing from the start. His father mentioned that, too, in his journal—that Volkhart von Arundel was likely selling off his sister for the chance at more power and wealth. Ferdinand scoffs at the thought. As they say in Derdriu, the pot calls the kettle black.

“Hey,” Linhardt murmurs, breaking Ferdinand out of his silent worry and speculation. He blinks over at the green-haired mage. "I heard, you know."

He pales and lowers his head, ashamed and embarrassed that his classmate overheard what transpired in his father’s study. “I am sorry you had to hear that, Linhardt. I… I should not have argued with my father like that.”

Surprisingly, Linhardt responds with a tsk and a derisive wave of his hand. “The fact that you are always so outspoken, pompous, and self-assured to  _ everyone, _ yet doubt yourself when it comes to your father is something I will never understand about you.”

“W-what?”

“You spoke your mind to him—you stood up to him. I heard it all. But you feel guilty for it _ now? _ I don't understand.”

Ferdinand hesitates. “I guess… I am just afraid.”

“Of disappointing him?” Linhardt questions. “Or  _ of  _ him?”

_ Both. _

“I do not know,” he lies. His voice is so small and cowardly, it doesn’t even sound like himself.

Linhardt looks at him from his side of the balcony for a long while before standing up straight and stretching his arms. “Well, what I  _ do  _ know is that Wilhelmina still has an estate here in Enbarr. It's out toward the edge of the city, but it’s fair for us to assume that she's probably spending winters here than up in the mountains.”

“Are you suggesting we visit?” Ferdinand asks incredulously. “This late in the evening?”

The young mage shrugs. “Why not? It doesn't do either of us any good to stand here and try to hypothesize. Besides, all your worrying will give you wrinkles," Linhardt teases dryly. Ferdinand doesn’t laugh, but he agrees that it would be unproductive to spend all evening wondering about this.

"Maybe her children are staying with her, too. You’re not the only one who wants to pay them a visit, you know,” Linhardt explains. Then he turns to fully face Ferdinand, his eyes closed and face resolute. “In fact, I'm  _ insisting _ we go. Mostly because I'm curious to see if you still have a crush on Ceci.”

“I-I did not have a crush on her,” Ferdinand snaps back, flabbergasted.

“You totally did,” Linhardt dead-pans. “Now come on, don't be stubborn.”

  
  
  


* * *

Everything is foggy and out of focus, but Byleth is slowly able to pick up little glimpses of blurred details. Tapestry covered stone walls. Royal blue cloaks. Damp faces that pass her by. Smoke swirls around, perfumed with frankincense and balsam. The air feels static, prickling Byleth’s skin and the hair on her arms as she tries to blink through the haze.

It’s hot, humidity clinging to her lashes and sticking under her clothes. She can’t tell if the oppressive heat is making her feel woozy or if it’s the heavily perfumed incense that is desperately trying to cover a sour odor.

Coughing. Crying. Her boots pace on marble floors. She’s walking, but is she moving forward?

Ahead, there’s a pair of figures. The older one is kneeling, and the other is a small child who tugs on the robes of the one kneeling. The sun shines a little too brightly from outside the arched windows and Byleth has to shield her eyes from the glare. Squinting from under her hand, she sees the pair bathed in light, their golden hair and royal blue finery.

Byleth’s feet feel stuck to the stone beneath her boots, like the sweltering temperature had melted the rubber soles to the marble. In a fleeting moment of clarity, she realizes the kneeling figure and the child stand before a catafalque draped in similar velvety blue fabric. The child clings to the arm of the kneeling figure, tugging the fabric of the cloak embroidered with a mighty lion—a symbol she has seen before. The Blaiddyd coat of arms.  _ Which means…  _ Byleth tries to move, but she can’t.

“Where’s mother?” the small child asks, voice echoing down the stone walls and floors of the chamber.

_ …Dimitri. _

Byleth grips the back of one of the wooden pews and tries to push herself forward, but she remains unmoving. The chains of the thurible are too loud all of a sudden, and Byleth winces at the sound. She can see them now, the late King of Faerghus and his son, an impossibly small and young Dimitri. She can see their lips moving, but everything is too loud to hear what they’re saying, and Byleth is impossibly stuck.

The King… seems familiar. Like she’s seen him before. But there’s an overwhelming feeling that she has seen  _ all of this _ before. The incense is burning her eyes, and they start to water. Things slip out of focus again and she clutches onto the back of the pew to stay upright and oriented.

Something touches her left hand, startling her, and Byleth snaps to see a pair impossibly wide lilac eyes looking back at her. Mousy hair done up in matching ribbons and those eyes that cut through the dizziness and the clamoring chains right down to her soul. The lost girl, wandering through snow-covered fields—the girl called Edelgard. Her hand slips into Byleth’s, just like in those dreams of hers. It’s so small in her palm.  _ Is this a dream, too? _

“My mother left me,” the girl named Edelgard tells her. “Do you think she ever loved me?”

Before Byleth can open her mouth to respond, the girl vanishes along with the pews and Dimitri and the King. Tapestries dissolve into stormy skies and the marble floor gives way to mud that squishes beneath her boots. Byleth stares at her empty outstretched hand for a second in disbelief, the warmth from the girl’s palm fleeting, before she quickly realizes the chaos surrounding her.

Houses were aflame, the metallic catter of blade on blade reverberating through the rain and distant thunder. It was as if she had been dropped directly in the middle of a battle being waged on the streets of this village—people were fighting just a few feet away from her. Byleth reaches instinctively for the Sword of the Creator, but realizes she’s weaponless. That same dizziness and disorientation from before returns, except the incense is replaced by black smoke billowing from thatched roofs and razed buildings, and instead of tears and sobs there’s screams and the smell of burning flesh.

She staggers back to avoid the errant swing of someone’s axe, but she’s not quite fast enough. Byleth braces for the inevitable impact, but she blinks dumbly as the head of the axe just phases right through her instead, like she is merely a phantom. The two men fighting don’t even seem to realize that she’s there, either. She sucks in a breath and backs away, trying to make sense of where she is through the fog of confusion.

The buildings give Byleth no clue, as flames engulf them despite the steady rain. The attire of the people fighting around her aren’t military uniforms from any Fódlan nation—they look just like… normal villagers. Byleth coughs, the smoke starting to burn her lungs and throat. Blood mingles with the rainwater and mud on the ground as fallen villagers litter the street. More fighting. More screaming.

“Mother!” a voice cries out, chilling Byleth to the bone.

She keeps trudging through the mud and corpses down the street. Another voice screams out for the Saints, likely near the brink of death and praying for a merciful end—unfortunately, Byleth is quite used to hearing that sort of thing on the battlefield. Prayers to the Saints or the goddess in one’s final moments are equally as common among the devout and the non-believers in Fódlan, she has realized. But that doesn’t surprise her much—people of different ideologies or fighting under different banners are all united in the fear of death.

Blood seeps out from a dying man onto the mud and cobblestone under Byleth’s feet. His hand is still wrapped around his sword… and that’s when she notices. The turmoil and chaos around her falls to an eerie silence as she studies the blade. It’s a leaf shape, wide at the base and narrowing toward the tip. The flames reflect on the divults of rainwater and crimson in the mud, as well as on the golden edge of the sword.

This type of blade, Byleth had only read about in books. It was unmistakably a bronze shortsword from the early days of the Empire. It’s been nearly a  _ thousand _ years since blacksmiths forged weapons from bronze—iron and steel are the most common alloys for weaponry nowadays.

“Mother!” the voice screams again, the shrill cries, roar of flames, and clash of battle resuming in a cacophony that nearly ruptures her eardrums with how suddenly it returns. Byleth clutches her ears to muffle the sounds as tears gather at the corner of her eyes. She feels like she’s going to be sick.

Someone phases through her, tripping through the muck and dragging someone along with them. She blearily looks over and sees that it’s Seteth. Soot is smudged on his cheek and a pus-like substance is dripping down his temple from his hairline. It's not crimson like blood, so it's likely from blisters from the fire. He holds a trembling Flayn near to him, his hand forcing her to look away from the burning building they just fled from. This does little to deter her from wailing and trying to tear away from his arms. Seteth pulls Flayn back in his direction, his normally stoic face utterly distraught.

_ “Why _ would they do this? Where are they taking mother?” she cries, her voice raw with pain and anger. She pulls on her brother’s arm and tugs on the fabric of his pants as she collapses to the ground in her fit, her dress now stained with mud. “We cannot leave without her!”

Byleth calls out to them, but they don’t react like they heard her. She’s not sure what she expected by her attempt, given that she’s nothing but a phantom here, trapped in another twisted and awful nightmare.

“It’s too late for her,” Seteth’s voice cracks. “I cannot lose you, too. We have to go!”

Byleth watches through the swirling smoke and ash as Seteth pulls Flayn up off the ground before they hurry off between burning buildings and clashing blades. She tries to follow them, but in a blink, the scene changes again.

It’s still dark, but there’s no fires and no fighting. There’s no screaming, but there’s a persistent ringing in Byleth’s ears that she can’t shake. Her eyes take a moment to adjust, but when they do, there’s a boy standing on a porch. It looks as though he’s dressed in his nightclothes, and he’s facing a woman and a young girl.

“Mother,” the boy whimpers as the woman bends down to press her lips to his forehead, brushing aside a lock of his blonde hair. He opens his mouth to speak again, but the woman shushes him with a finger.

“Be very quiet and go back to bed, now,” she tells him. One of her hands cups his cheek while her other clutches the hand of the young girl beside her. “Don’t wake your father.”

The boy nods and carefully pulls open the door to the house, looking back over his shoulder at his mother and the young girl racing across the yard under the moonlight. A breeze causes Byleth to shiver as the ringing in her ears grows louder and more intense. She feels her stomach lurch, and she empties her stomach onto the grassy lawn. The bile burns the back of her throat and her teeth sting and she wishes she would just wake up so this would all be over and—

“Give her back.”

Byleth gasps as she sees Lady Rhea standing before her, only a few inches away from her face. The scent of lilies makes her want to vomit again and the intense scrutiny of Rhea’s gaze makes her feel disoriented. 

“Give back my mother!”

The archbishop looks sharply into Byleth’s eyes as she thrusts a dagger deep into her abdomen, and Byleth shrieks. The blade sinks violently into her, buried to the hilt as it slashes through her middle and the pain grips her tight and paralyzes her. It's white hot and searing and is Byleth crying? It’s unlike any injury she’s ever had before—only made worse as Rhea flays her with the cold steel that burns her insides and  _ goddess _ there’s blood _ everywhere.  _ There’s so much of it, it’s pouring down her front, warm as it soaks the fabric of her pants and onto the earth beneath her feet.

Byleth is screaming and maybe even  _ begging _ Rhea to stop, but she can’t tell for certain it hurts too intensely for her to make sense of anything at all except the feeling of the dagger slicing her open. Her mind is blank aside from the excruciating pain. Her hands struggle to find purchase around the archbishop’s wrist that is still twisting the blade as it scrapes and slices in unending torment, but her fingers slip over the slick of her own blood, unable to get a solid grip.

“P-please…  _ please _ stop,” Byleth cries out, blood welling up in her mouth and trickling over her bottom lip. The rivulet runs warm down her chin and neck.

“You do not understand, Professor. I will  _ not  _ relent,” Rhea hisses with another agonizing twist of the dagger. The white of her dress is blotched with vermillion. “I will not cease until I see my mother again.”

_ Professor. _

She squints her eyes shut and chokes on the crimson in her mouth. Out of desperation, she tries to focus and use a divine pulse, but when she calls upon it to no avail, she remembers that  _ this isn’t real. _ None of this is real. And while that realization should be comforting, it’s  _ sickening _ because she’s powerless to make this nightmare end.

_ Professor. _

She thinks that if this  _ were _ indeed real, she would have most certainly have passed out from the sheer amount of agony—had she not bled out first, or had Rhea not finished the job, of course. What did Byleth even  _ do _ to deserve this? Did the archbishop truly hate her so? With every twist and scrape of the blade, Byleth cries harrowingly out into the night. Will this ever end?

_ Professor. _

_ Professor Byleth! _

  
  
  
  


* * *

Byleth jolts upright in bed, her neck and the collar of her shirt damp with tears and sweat. She can’t breath through her nose as it’s all stuffed up from the crying she’d done in her sleep. This leaves her trying to swallow huge gulps of air. Her legs still feel warm and wet and her stomach still searing, so she tears off the covers from her lower half in a panic, ripping her one hand out of Dimitri’s grasp in the process.

She didn’t even notice him there until he stood up with a start, palm to back as he worriedly asked if she was hurt. Upon careful inspection, Byleth’s legs were fine—the fabric of her pants unstained. Placing a hand to her middle, there was no pain… no wound, no blood… not a thing. She lets the corner of the blanket drop from her shaky hand and tries to breathe normally.

“I-I’m so sorry to wake you, Professor,” Dimitri apologizes. She looks over at him, her vision still blurry from sleep and the wetness in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you hurt?”

Byleth shakes her head weakly. “No, it’s not that… It was just a bad dream.”

“I was—  _ we  _ were worried,” Dimitri explains, his gloved hand comforting on the back of her shoulder blades.

_ We? _

“I would have let you sleep, Professor,” a sweet voice chimes in, dancing and delicate like a melody. “But I just couldn’t bear to see you having a nightmare like that. I had Dimitri wake you up. I hope you don’t mind.” Byleth turns toward the voice and spies Mercedes in one of the white linen infirmary aprons on the other side of her cot. _ It must be her shift,  _ Byleth thinks, not seeing Manuela anywhere. The infirmary is darker now as the sun has begun to set for the day. It’s likely around dinner time.

“Yeah, what in Seiros’ name were you even dreaming about that was  _ that bad?”  _ Byleth lifts her gaze to see Felix standing at attention toward the foot of her cot. His amber eyes look serious and clearly alarmed.

“The Professor doesn’t have to talk about it if she doesn’t feel comfortable, Felix. I think we all know how awful it is to have bad dreams,” Mercedes politely chides him. He folds his arms with a groan, giving up on the matter. She turns back to Manuela’s shelves of apothecary jars to continue grinding something in the mortar and pestle. Byleth watches her for a long moment, studying her long ash blonde hair tied back and out of her face with a satiny azure ribbon. Bits of her nightmare creep back in, still vivid in her mind.

  
  


_ “Be very quiet and go back to bed, now,” the woman tells the boy. One of her hands cups his cheek while her other clutches the hand of the young girl beside her. “Don’t wake your father.” _

_ The boy nods and carefully pulls open the door to the house. Suddenly, Byleth is standing beside him, though he appears not to notice. He looks back over his shoulder at his mother and the young girl racing across the yard under the moonlight, and Byleth follows his gaze. The mother wears her hair pulled up into a tight bun atop her head, but the young girl, not more than nine or ten years old at most, wears her hair long. Flaxen waves cascade down her back, shining prettily in the moonlight as she runs hand in hand with her mother. _

_ For a second, the girl looks back at her brother with soft cornflower eyes. _

  
  


“Here, take this when you want to sleep again,” Mercedes instructs, pressing a small corked bottle into the palm of her left hand. She also delicately presses a handkerchief to her tear-stained cheeks to dry them. “My mother used to give this to my little brother when he had nightmares, and it helped him sleep like a baby.”

Byleth tenses under her touch, shaken from thinking about her nightmare, but Mercedes doesn’t acknowledge it, likely because she’s just trying to be considerate. She smiles warmly down at her even though Byleth cannot even form words to thank her, much less breathe. Dimitri’s warm hand resting comfortingly on her spine brings her back to center. She looks up at Felix, and he appears paler than one of the ghosts in Mercedes’ scary stories. 

“Manuela told me that you were free to leave after you woke up,” Mercedes informs her, folding her hands delicately in front of the skirt of her apron. “She also did make me promise to tell you that you should listen to your father… I’m not sure what that means, but I am hopeful you do!”

A groan escapes Byleth’s lips. Mercedes giggles softly to herself as she turns to put away the jars of dried herbs and flowers back in their places. “I’m sure one of these two gentlemen would gladly walk you back to your quarters,” she adds, a subtle nudge to get a move on.

Dimitri quickly volunteers, earning an eye roll from Felix.

“Well, now that the boar has everything handled, I’m going to train while there’s still some daylight,” he announces dryly. Felix makes a point to walk past Byleth as she pulls on her boots. “Hopefully you’re feeling well enough to spar tomorrow morning before class, Professor.”

She hums in response as the swordsman takes her leave. Mercedes wishes them all a good evening as Dimitri, ever courteous, holds open the door to the infirmary open for her. As they make their way down the hallway, Byleth can’t help but notice that Seteth’s door is open—a rare sight on a Sunday, the Church’s day of worship. When they pass in front of it, he’s too absorbed in a stack of paperwork to notice them. Part of her is glad, as she recalls that he summoned her this morning after their arrival back at the monastery… likely to lecture her about disappearing without alerting anyone. Or possibly taking six horses for four people, which is equally as suspicious. She is not eager to find out either way.

“Whatever could be so important that he’s working late on a Sunday… of all days?” the impish voice of the goddess interjects, causing Byleth to jump mid-step. She reassures Dimitri that it was just a shiver, and he accepts the lie without contest. He even offers her his academy jacket, draping it over her shoulders. A blush rises on her cheeks, and she doesn’t try to hide it. It’s just the two of them on this stroll, anyway.

The fabric is still warm from him, and when she pulls the jacket tight around her, it smells like him. Like leather and chamomile and mahogany. It’s comforting.

“It’s embarrassing how much you two dote on each other,” Sothis quips. “Honestly.”

_ He lent me his jacket—isn’t that what a gentleman should do?  _ Byleth thinks back.

The goddess snorts. “Sure, but you  _ sniffed _ it,” she points out, causing Byleth’s face to burn hot with shame. “Love makes humans such fools.”

_ Where have you been, anyway, Sothis? _

Byleth and Dimitri arrive at her quarters. He holds the heavy wooden door open for her as she steps in first. She waves him in, and he obliges, a light pink dusting his cheeks. Kicking off her boots, she sets down the small bottle of tincture that Mercedes gave her on the table by her bed.

“I’ve been sleeping. I can’t explain why, but I’ve been so tired lately,” the goddess yawns. “You and I have a lot to discuss. Abyss, the Relic... that Yuri fellow…”

Byleth plops down on the edge of her bed and Dimitri follows her. She hums in response to Sothis, a sound that’s innocuous enough that the prince shouldn’t notice as he leans down to press kisses to the now dried tracks of tears down her face. One of his arms slips under his jacket to press a hand against the small of her back, holding her close to him as the mattress creaks slightly when he leans into her.

“Are you even  _ listening  _ to me?” the goddess demands.

The heat that radiates off of the prince is inviting as Byleth fists the fabric of Dimitri’s white collared shirt, pulling him down to meet her. The conversation earlier with her father left her feeling disappointed and hopeless, and then the nightmare was like pulling teeth—but Dimitri’s tongue slowly slipping between her parted lips is like a balm that soothes her worry and anxiety, even if just for this evening. She tilts her head back as one of his gloved hands cards through her hair, allowing him more access to explore her mouth.

_ Can we… talk later? Please? _

Byleth thinks she can hear the goddess grumble in protest. If Sothis had anything witty to say in response, she didn’t hear it over her own soft moans as Dimitri pushes his jacket off her shoulders. It falls to the floor beside Dimitri’s boots which at some point had been kicked off. Wordlessly, she guides him to crawl toward the center of the mattress with her. Parting from him, she reclines on the bed and he follows suit, laying beside her.

Dimitri slips his arms around Byleth, drawing her against him. He presses a series of slow, soft kisses to her lips as she curls her body around him, weaving her arms under his and around his broad shoulders. Tangling their legs together, their kisses taper off until Byleth tucks her nose into the crook of Dimitri’s neck.

“Stay here with me tonight,” she whispers into his collarbone, followed by a chaste press of her lips. “At least until I fall asleep?”

He hesitates for a second, likely worrying about someone seeing him exit a professor’s quarters come morning, but hums in agreement. Dimitri takes a lock of her hair and twirls it around his finger absentmindedly. “Do you want that sleeping draught now? I’ll bring it to you,” he offers.

Byleth shakes her head. “I’d like to stay up a little while and talk with you, if that’s okay.”

Dimitri smiles genuinely at her, his forehead resting against hers. “Of course. You know, Byleth,” he says, her stomach fluttering at the sound of her name on his lips, “if you want to talk about your nightmare… please know that I am always here to listen. You are always so kind to me, especially when I cannot sleep… I want to return the favor. If you feel comfortable, of course.”

She studies the depths of his blue eyes, so clear and earnest. That tightness in her chest returns, the one that always happens when she’s with him. Byleth has told him about one of her dreams before, the one about him. But that dream was different— _ just a silly dream, _ he called it. And she believed it. Afterall, dreams and nightmares are just the mind’s imagination running wild in our sleep. Or that’s what her father always told her as a child when she’d wake him in the middle of the night after one of her recurring gruesome nightmares.

She’s sure that Dimitri's presence in the nightmare she just had can easily be explained as a projection of her subconscious, given that he told her that his mother died when he was young. And all the rest… the brown-haired girl named Edelgard and the boy standing on the porch are just bits of previous dreams she’s had that made appearances again. Surely it didn’t mean anything, much like Seteth and Flayn and the burning buildings and old swords. None of it made sense. But that’s what dreams and nightmares are—nonsense.

There’s a sharp twinge in her stomach where the archbishop thrust her blade, and Byleth’s breath catches in her throat at the reminder of that bit.

Byleth decides against telling Dimitri about  _ any  _ part of her nightmare. She doesn’t want to worry him. “It was just a scary dream. I can’t even remember most of it, anyway,” she lies. “My father would just say that it’s because I’m stressed. My guess is that fighting those beasts from yesterday is to blame.”

“Yes, that was certainly stressful,” he agrees, rubbing her back comfortingly. “It reminded me of what happened at Conand Tower. I’m glad none of us were injured.... I don’t think that either Yuri or Constance could have predicted walking into something like that.”

Remembering Hubert’s uncharacteristic comments around the campfire yesterday, she bristles at Dimitri’s words. Yuri’s motivation for assisting Constance was the mysterious Relic, and as much as it pains her to consider the advice of Edelgard's retainer, she wonders if perhaps the attack on Duke Gerth and the attacks on Abyss are related as Hubert suggested… It could very well be just coincidence that Yuri is at the center of it all… but…

"What do you think of him? Yuri, I mean," Byleth asks suddenly. The circles that Dimitri is tracing lazily on her back stop as he looks at her. She feels guilty for ruining the mood, but now these thoughts are bothering her. So much so that she's starting to feel a sliver of regret for sending Sothis away.

"He is a capable leader," Dimitri says. His tone is measured, and it’s evident that he’s carefully choosing each word. "He inspires others, despite having a knack for getting into trouble. But then again, he has always been that way."

Byleth furrows her brow in confusion. "You knew of Yuri?"

Dimitri nods, his hand moving to rest on her hip. Byleth isn't sure how to react as her mind tries to wrap itself around this new piece of information. She didn't know Yuri from her previous life, but Yuri and  _ Dimitri  _ know each other…  _ did they know each other back then?  _ she wonders. "He was adopted by Count Rowe several years ago. He spent summers in Fhirdiad with myself, Sylvain, Ingrid, and Felix."

_Yeah, Sothis_ really _should be here right now to listen to this,_ Byleth thinks. _Why hadn't Dimitri mentioned this earlier?_ _Certainly this is an important detail to leave out._ One doesn’t simply forget about people they spent multiple summers with growing up… and Yuri is hardly someone that is forgettable. Moreover, Byleth feels a flare of irritation about someone _else_ that omitted their connection to Yuri.

"Felix…" she murmurs.

"Yes, he and Yuri were quite close, especially after Glenn died," Dimitri elaborates, his tone somber. She knows that the late Fraldarius is a difficult topic for him, too. "Yuri is older than the rest of us, so he became great friends with Glenn since they were the same age. Miklan, too… Sylvain’s brother. But after what happened in Duscur…"

Dimitri trails off, his voice growing thick. With a gentle touch, Byleth weaves her fingers through his, giving his hand a small reassuring squeeze.

"...it was really hard for Felix. And Yuri, too—Glenn was his best friend. I mean, it was difficult for  _ all _ of us, losing Glenn. But Felix and Yuri became inseparable after that. I think they helped each other through what happened in Duscur… just like how Dedue and I were there for each other. That's why when Yuri left House Rowe, it really affected Felix."

"Why did he leave?"

"He enrolled here at the academy, but was expelled soon after,” Dimitri explains. “I don't know why—we were never told. But he never returned to the Kingdom after that—none of us, heard from him since then, not even Count Rowe."

Byleth nods, slowly absorbing all of this new information. "I see,” she breathes.

"I’m sorry, Byleth. It's been a few years since I've seen Yuri, and we were friendly, but never that close. I apologize for not mentioning that I knew him; when you said he suggested that I help with the thieves in Abyss, I must have wrongly assumed that he told you," Dimitri murmurs into her hair. 

Byleth shakes her head, nuzzling into his neck and hugging him tighter. She hates when he acts so defeated over the most trivial things. "You don’t have to apologize to me, Dimitri. The topic just never came up before. I should be the one apologizing for bringing it up,” she admits. She really should be, considering that she just asked him to share bits of his past when she won’t even tell him about a silly nightmare she had.

She thinks fleetingly to what Yuri told her a few nights ago when he broke into her quarters… about everything that she’s yet to share with Dimitri. She supposes Yuri would disagree with her, but he doesn’t know all of her secrets. He doesn’t know what all is at stake. So for the meantime, Byleth will keep Dimitri in the dark. He has enough things that keep him up at night, anyway. The prince brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, his gloved fingers lingering at the corner of her jaw.

"I'm glad you did though. You're easy to talk to, Byleth. You always seem to have all of the answers,” he tells her ardently. Her breath catches in her throat, but instead of butterflies, there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I feel like I can speak to you about anything. It—it helps me… sort through things. Gah, you know what I mean."

"I do,” she whispers into the space between them. The prince smiles beautifully before capturing her lips with his once more. His mouth is warm as it moves against hers. When they part, she rests her forehead against his chin, feeling his heartbeat with a hand splayed out over his chest. With his free hand, Dimitri pulls up her patchwork quilt to cover both of them.

"I'll always be here for you, Dimitri,” she vows.

  
  
  
  


* * *

Usually the weather is quite temperate in Enbarr this time of year. But tonight, the temperature continues to drop steadily, the night air cooling off dramatically as strong winds coming from the north. Hubert pulls up the collar of his jacket to prevent the sting of the wind on his cheek, though it does little to stop his hair from flying in his face. His companion doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest as he looks up toward the starless night sky.

"A rainstorm is coming," Jertiza observes. Right one cue, they hear a rumble of thunder off in the distance. A few specks of rain land on Hubert’s forehead and he increases his stride.

"Best hurry so we can get inside,” Hubert grumbles. “I won’t let you be the reason I get soaked to the bone or struck by lightning."

"Hmph."

They’ve been walking through this forsaken olive grove for a half an hour now, though Hubert has been looking for Jeritza for even longer, since sundown. Well, technically he’s been on the search for him for  _ days  _ now, ever since Edelgard requested that he find him on her behalf. Suffice to say, he knew it would be a difficult task, considering Jeritza was operating in Abyss and who  _ knows  _ where else on Lord Arundel’s behalf. Especially considering how events unfolded at the monastery not even two weeks ago—certainly the Knights and Empire both are on the hunt for him.

Hubert has checked Wilhelmina’s estate in Enbarr daily since Edelgard’s request. It is simple enough to warp there, but each time, he found no signs of Jeritza. He began to wonder if he was wandering around the depths of Abyss in parts yet unknown to him or the Ashen Wolves. He even wonders if they had found him here, first. But then tonight he decided enough was enough and wandered through the sprawling lawns, now overgrown and littered with weeds, looking for Jeritza. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for him to prowl around the estate’s farro fields in the dead of night to go “hunting,” as he puts it. The man is peculiar, and that is putting it lightly.

Sure enough, Hubert eventually found him out by a dried up creek toward the back of the estate’s olive grove, though Jeritza wasn’t hunting. He claimed he was looking for someone, though Hubert just figured that it was one of the man’s delusions. There’s no one out here at the edge of the city, much less in the unkept groves and fields surrounding an empty home. They were miles away from the city, many acres separating the edge of the property from the next closest farm.

They still have quite a ways to go before they reach the farmhouse and shelter from the approaching rain. While Hubert doesn’t particularly enjoy conversation with Jeritza, he figures he can at least make a start on gathering intelligence on Lord Arundel and his schemes.

"You must know I'm going to ask this, but what plans does Thales have down in Abyss that involve you? Lady Edelgard was…  _ surprised  _ to see you and the mages down there, to say the least." He knows that he doesn’t have to use the rat’s pretend name with Jeritza. They both have had the misfortune of knowing Arundel’s true identity, and they both resent the dastard and the rest of those who slither in the dark.

Jeritza grumbles deep in his chest. "It's best that you don't meddle," he warns.

"But that  _ is  _ one of the conditions of your agreement with Her Highness, is it not? That you keep her abreast of Thales' plots?"

"You are not the princess," he rebuffs.

_ Back at this nonsense again, are we? _

"I'm not dense,” Hubert hisses, his gloved hands curling into fists at his side. “But Lady Edelgard is currently being closely monitored by one of Thales' ilk. That's why I'm here. And believe me, her orders are the  _ only _ reason I am here with  _ you." _

The last time he crossed paths with Jeritza, they left each other alone. But the time before that, he had left Hubert badly broken. Something that he isn’t going to easily forget or forgive the other man for doing. They are allies… or should be, anyway.

"He did that to you, not I."

"Don't feed me that nonsense. I apologize that it's rather  _ difficult  _ for me to forget that all of my broken bones were your doing."

Jeritza scoffs, his face tense and voice darkly ominous. "You were foolish to have challenged him."

"It was  _ you, _ and I didn't challenge anyone,” Hubert corrects him. It positively vexes him that Jeritza refers to himself as two people—the Death Knight being his so-called bloodthirsty demon that lives inside him. Hubert believes it all to be hog wash. He too has killed many people, but he doesn’t hide behind an alter ego like Jeritza does. His hands alone carry the blood he’s spilt—even if the former von Bartels scion is rather disturbed, no amount of hand-scrubbing or thrilling embellishment will change the fact that the blade was in  _ his  _ hands. “If my memory serves me correctly, I asked you to step aside." 

"We can argue all day, Hubert. We both serve the princess,” Jeritza grimaces up at the raindrops that begin to sprinkle down his brow. “It's best we focus on that."

Hubert laughs dourly. “Your recent distancing leads me to believe that you’re really serving  _ them."  _ It’s a fair assumption, he believes, given his rogue behavior not once, but twice. Not to mention that he blew his cover at the monastery in the process and nearly killed him in the process.

"Don't pretend like you aren't either. We  _ all  _ are, the princess included."

He can’t argue with that. Hubert knows that he’s expendable to Thales—he isn’t stupid. He’s crestless and not particularly athletic or gifted at weapons handling.

His promise to Edelgard… his stalwart belief in her vision, and in her revenge, drove him to throw himself into studying dark magic from one of the court mages. He quickly learned the lethal and forbidden magical arts that are practiced almost exclusively by those who slither in the dark. In exchange for tutoring, he ran errands for them. Acquiring questionable materials and ingredients that are foreign to Fódlan or nearly impossible to procure. He killed on their behalf once he was old enough.

It was all to make himself useful… valuable enough to Thales to remain by Edelgard’s side—and dangerous enough to protect her.

"I play along with their games, and I will until I have the chance to exterminate them like the vermin they are. Our allegiance should be to Lady Edelgard, however, you never alerted her or I about the vile experiments they were conducting… and then we find you traipsing down in Abyss,” Hubert challenges the blonde man. “Their leader, one of the Church's monks, believes you all are searching for a lost Chalice of sorts. Did you ever plan on telling Her Highness about any of that? What else is Thales planning that you aren't telling us about?"

Jeritza ducks under a low-hanging olive branch. Though it’s dark, Hubert can see in the seriousness of his eyes that his companion is aggravated… and quite troubled. "What transpired at the monastery… I did not expect it. Thales pushed me into a corner,” Jeritza suggests, clearly insinuating that he had no knowledge of or control over what occurred that day.

"I find it hard to believe that you didn't know of his plans in advance,” Hubert counters. “Somehow, our  _ Professor  _ knew what was going to happen."

It always struck him as peculiar that she and Fraldarius left the classroom mere minutes before the latter conveniently and  _ quickly  _ stumbled upon the scene in Jeritza’s private quarters that is off-limits to students. Mercedes was there, too, but he’s not sure what to make of her involvement. But that was too curious to be coincidence—dare he even call it foreknowledge. Regardless, that day increased his suspicion of the Professor and the Blue Lions’ swordsman and their allegiances.

"The Professor…” Jeritza trails off. The rain starts coming down more steadily now, but thankfully, the farmhouse was in sight. The catkins that cascade down from the willows by the property tremble in the wind. Another rumble of thunder urges them to walk faster to reach the cobblestone path that winds up to the back porch of the house.

“If she was involved, I did not know of it. But what is happening in Abyss is not by the order of Thales," Jeritza warns. "The lost Chalice you speak of is something Chilon desires, I know that much. Personally, I’m not even sure such a thing exists, but there is no swaying him from his hunt for it. I know you all are trying to find it first, but it is best that you all stay away.”

Strands of Hubert’s raven hair begin to stick to the side of his face from the wind and rain. The mention of Chilon leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, as well as an acute feeling of impending doom. He tries to quickly shuffle it away, but it prickles at the edge of his mind. He’s never met Chilon—thankfully—but has heard many  _ unpleasant  _ stories about him. "I would love nothing more than to beat him to that stupid Chalice. For no other reason than to spite him,” he says, channeling his bravado despite the lingering sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"You have the luxury of doing so,” Jeritza remarks wistfully. “Not I.  _ You  _ don't have anyone they'll take from you."

_ Ah. _

"I have Lady Ed—"

"They will never harm her,” he cuts Hubert off. “You know that. She is their greatest creation. Consider yourself lucky. The rest of us are just hounds on leashes."

Jeritza strides ahead of Hubert, his words lingering dismally as the wind howls around them. His bad leg is still weak, and it holds Hubert back from catching up with the older man’s pace. The trees shudder and murmur to each other as they bend in the gale. Wiping the rainwater that is collecting at his brow, he sees Jertiza climb the porch steps and stop, holding onto one of the columns. The hair at the back of his neck stands on end when he hears a pair of screams through the thunder and rain, his feet nearly slipping from underneath him on the slick cobblestone path.

_ Those weren’t screams, right? No, surely it was just the wind... _ Hubert, ever the skeptic, believes the latter and tugs his cloak tighter until Jeritza calls for him urgently through the din of the storm.

“Hubert!”

A shock of lightning splits the sky, thunder booming so powerfully that it shakes the ground beneath his feet. Hubert hurries ahead to meet Jeritza, watching him draw his blade from the scabbard on his hip.  _ So they  _ were _ screams, _ Hubert thinks to himself as he readies a Miasma spell in his right hand. He climbs the porch steps and hears the yelling more distinctly now, along with a low rumbling growl that reverberates through the wooden floorboards under his boots.

“Ready yourself, Hubert. It seems our old friend has visitors.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you are safe and healthy, wherever you are. ❤️
> 
> This chapter felt like a *ton* of backstory for our favorite students (because it totally was, who am I kidding lol), so I appreciate it if you've made it this far! I blame Edelgard for having 10 siblings. 😉 But I promise all of the boring backstory will be worth it!
> 
> I would love it if you shared your thoughts with me on this chapter, or just the fic in general! I always appreciate your kind comments and feedback.
> 
> In other news, I'm moving house next week (my birthday week~~ yay, love packing so much 🥳) so I can start my new job in a new city. Wow, that seems like old news now, because it's been quite some time since I shared that update! Either way, I'm super stoked. Also, I have a twitter now?? Follow me over at [@freikuwugel](https://twitter.com/freikuwugel) if you would like! I'll be sharing little snippets of upcoming chapters over there, along with some ~deep and profound commentary~ and a sprinkle of memes.
> 
> See you all in the next chapter!


	11. The Wheel of Fortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert makes a startling discovery. Ferdinand has theories. Felix argues with swords and words. Lysithea drives a hard bargain. Linhardt nearly faints. Byleth makes a proposal.
> 
> “Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.”  
>  _-King Lear, 1.1.280-281_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been like three months since I last updated... very sorry about that. But like Ace Frehley, I'm back in the New York groove. I have more updates in the endnotes, but for now--enjoy this new chapter :)

Hubert follows Jeritza through the side door into the galley and pantry. The tile floor is cracked and buckling in places as the pair move through the kitchen, the roars growing deafening as they move closer to the source. Jeritza puts a boot through what is left of dusty and splintered Nuvellean doors that head from the dining room to the front room, most of the little inset windows already shattered by the commotion beyond them.

They're met immediately with a dark scaled mass that is a sight all too familiar to Hubert. Its clawed limbs stomp around, confined somehow to the space that is clearly too small for the wretched thing. If it wasn’t for the open two-story sitting room, the creature would have crumbled the ceilings and crushed them all in its thrashing about. For that, Hubert supposes, he is grateful. The brief sentiment withers away when the beast’s tail whips into him, the scales slicing through the fabric on his right sleeve as he’s pressed back into the parlor wall.

Hubert hisses at the sharp pain as blood trickles out of his jacket cuff and onto his white gloves. The tail whips to the other side of the room, colliding with the spiral staircase up to the second floor landing.  _ They’re doing experiments here, of all places? _ he wonders to himself, staggering forward and trying to eye up the situation. Without wasting a beat, Hubert swallows any fear and slings a Mire toward the beast’s side, causing it to throw its horned head back in a ear-splitting howl.

The beast sways in place for a moment—the perfect time to take advantage of, Hubert has learned over his many run-ins with similar abominations. Thunder rumbles outside after a bolt of lightning shines in through the windows and the front door left wide open to the storm blowing in. Parts of the beast's scales almost glisten like onyx, still wet from the rain. Hubert readies another spell, the magic sparking purple and smoking between his palms—

Jeritza thrusts his arm in front of him, forcing his hands down as he acts like a partition between Hubert and the beast. Furious, Hubert tries to shove Jeritza out of the way so he can make his shot at the beast while it's still dazed, but the blonde man is unmoving. He yanks his hands down and away to prevent him from casting anything—it feels patronizing, almost like a child having his hands ripped away from the cookie jar. Jeritza’s grip is so strong that Hubert’s worried he'll crush the bones in his fingers.

"Spare the beast, or I will kill you myself," Jeritza threatens, his blue eyes shifting into something serious as more lightning brightens the room for a half second. "Find whoever else is here visiting."

He finally frees Hubert from his iron grip, stepping away with his sword as he moves into the front room. Jeritza pays little mind to the beast who is back to being agitated; instead, he prowls about in search of the pair of screams they heard earlier. Not wanting to test if his companion was serious in his promise, Hubert does the same. He sticks to the perimeter of the room as he tries to shake life back into his fingertips, cautious to avoid an errant foot or another swinging tail.

_ Heh,  _ don't _ slay the beast… now that certainly isn't how the stories go, _ Hubert thinks to himself. He figures the beast is one of  _ theirs, _ which would explain why Jertiza forbids any harm to come of it. Which in itself isn't abnormal, unfortunately. Thales and his league of dark mages are obsessed with creating the perfect creature—both dangerous and bent to their will. But as terrifying and awful a thing as their experiments are, the thought of them being _ here _ is almost worse. Edelgard believes this place to be abandoned and thus nothing more than long lost history to them. If compromised, Jeritza no longer had a safe haven away from their watchful eye and influence.

Which, in the complex chess game between Her Highness and those who slither in the dark… such an event would be a major setback. A rare place of solace and safety stolen away… while continuing to drive a wedge between them and Jeritza, who is already unstable at best. Hubert knows too well what it’s like to make an enemy out of the Death Knight. That is a fate best avoided.

It takes every ounce of his being to stifle the rage building inside him—at this forsaken beast, at those who slither in the dark… After ripping  _ everything  _ from Lady Wilhelmina… they take her home as another laboratory for more of their despicable creations.  _ Was taking all of her children not enough? _ It makes Hubert sour to think that they have to ally themselves with those shapeshifting monsters that  _ dare  _ call themselves  _ men; _ but he begrudgingly acknowledges that their particular brand of dark magic—science, they call it—grants them an army of homunculi that stand 10 to 30 feet tall, which is beneficial on the battlefield. Regardless of the tactical necessity of their alliance, it's difficult for Hubert to stomach. He grits his teeth and silently wishes that wherever Lady Wihelmina is, she’s far enough away to never learn of what transpired here at her estate. 

Hubert pivots out of the way of the beast's front left foot as it takes an angry step, its growls rumbling deep at something before it. As he makes his way to the front corner of the room, he sees a brilliant white flash of magic. He can make out two figures in the darkness before the beast blocks his view again.  _ The pair of screams we heard earlier… probably two dark mages. Heh, at least their wayward experiment is getting its much deserved revenge, _ he thinks to himself as he climbs over a torn and musty sofa that was overturned in the chaos.

As he approaches the figures, he wonders if he should just let the beast crush them.  _ A fitting end, really. _ But as a streak of lightning illuminates the front room, Hubert doesn’t see black robes and hoods and beaked masks.

He sees a flash of ginger hair and a young mage who is up way past his bedtime. At first, he's confused. But that quickly gives way into grave irritation when he gets a closer look, squinting in the darkness at who can only be Ferdinand von Aegir and Linhardt von Hevring.

He ducks out of their line of sight— _they_ can't _know that he is here._ _Hells,_ they _shouldn't be here in the first place!_ Hubert lingers in the shadows unseen by his classmates and the beast alike.

_ I thought ‘visiting home’ would mean staying _ at _ home, _ Hubert glowers. Linhardt tries another spell, Nosferatu this time, but it does little more than antagonize the beast even further... and from what he can tell, Ferdinand is unarmed.  _ Great. _ He'll have to find a way to subdue the beast or get those two simpletons to run away without them seeing him, preferably before they get seriously injured or worse… oh, and before Jeritza finds his way around the other side of the beast.

_ What a fucking awful predicament. _

He creeps closer to his classmates, stepping over splintered floorboards and fallen pieces of artwork. He's never cast Banshee outside of just practice before, but right now that's all his mind can grasp at. He can only hope it's enough to scare them out… and that he doesn't overcast it.

The spell prickles at his fingertips. It's like a thousand little bubbles form, each whispering and murmuring to the darkness together as they jitter violently and wait to be released. He sees the beast swipe at Ferdinand, who falls backwards into the fragments of broken chaise. And as Linhardt rushes over to help him up before the beast's claws can tear at him again, Hubert spies Jeritza's pale blonde hair across the room.

_ It's now or never, _ Hubert decides, unleashing the spell into the floor before his fellow Black Eagles.

A swirling black smog covers the floor, and the whispering violet bubbles explode with a gut-wrenching and ear-splitting wailing that causes everyone to cover their ears. The sound is enough to make even the beast stagger backward as it howls in disconcerted harmony with the Banshee screams. The spell causes the floorboards to violently splinter and crack, and any windows around them pop and shatter. Linhardt pulls Ferdinand from his heap on the ground and they fly out the front door, coughing on the sulphuric smoke from the spell.

Hubert hurries after them, succeeding in beating Jeritza to the doorway. He watches as his classmates stumble out onto the cobblestone path, its cracks overgrown with grass and weeds, now slick from the rain. Another flash of lightning brightens the front yard, and Linhardt looks back toward the house with a look of terror on his face before warping him and a bleeding Ferdinand away.

“Those were your classmates, were they not?” Jeritza says darkly, sheathing his sword. “Do you think they saw you or I?”

_ I hope not, _ Hubert thinks. "No," he says instead, his voice sounding more confident than he truly feels. It is necessary that they survive this incident--regardless of how annoying Herving and Aegir are, they are skilled and can still be useful in their own right to Edelgard’s cause. That, and it would be highly problematic if Jeritza were to hunt them down for witnessing them and… whatever this aberration is.

"What are we to do about the beast? If only there was some way to return Thale’s mage to him in this state. What a poor fool…" Hubert chuckles darkly as he regards the state of Lady Wilhemina’s parlor room—or rather, what’s left of it. The throbbing returns to his left arm, and he tears away the already shredded fabric of his sleeve to expose the lacerations on his forearm, now sticky with the blood that has begun coagulating. He haphazardly heals them with his free hand.

"This is no mage," Jeritza murmurs, pacing toward the beast.

Hubert’s eyes widen, his chest thumping with anxiety at his partner reaching out his hand to rest against one of its grotesque scaled legs. Thales and the others who slither in dark… their creations are at the expense of innumerable human lives as flesh and blood are transmuted into deformed, hideous beasts using the darkest magic. Such a thing is inexcusable; it keeps Hubert up at night. But as much as humans turned beasts tug at one's heartstrings, it doesn't change the fact that they are lethal and dangerous.

He knows Jeritza is… not entirely sane… but to walk right up to a beast like it was a  _ pet! _ The man is clearly not in his right mind. The monster sways, a grumble vibrating deep inside its belly causing the floorboards to flutter and bits of glass to fall from smashed wooden panes. Hubert braces himself, the fizzle of black magic sparking between his fingertips as he prepares for the beast to do what beasts do: trample, crush, and devour.

But much to his surprise, the creature appears to lean into Jeritza's touch. A gust of wind blows in the rain through the broken windows and the gaping hole in the eastern wall of the parlor room. Droplets cling to the beast’s blackened scales. It lowers its head to nudge Jeritza's shoulder in a downright gentle gesture, a small whine coming from its jowls.

"Don't worry about me. It wasn't your fault," the blonde man tells the beast, his other hand smoothing over the scales of its head.

"What fucking madness are you spouting about?" Hubert hisses through the rain and howling wind. "It's a _monster—"_

A flash of lighting illuminates the remains of Lady Wilhelmina Morgaine’s parlor room—all of the broken windows and the fractured balustrade on the staircase, her favorite floral embroidered armchairs torn and upturned, the beast-sized hole where doors used to be… and a twin pair of deep gashes in Jeritza’s tunic, the oatmeal fabric blooming with crimson stains. The ones on Hubert’s forearm were only an annoyance--easily healed. His partner doesn't even seem phased by his far more serious wounds.

He moves to heal Jeritza with his bloodstained gloved hand outstretched, but as he approaches, the beast growls menacingly at him. "Stop that," Jeritza warns the scaled creature. "You remember him, too. Don't you, Gelfrid?"

Hubert’s brow furrows, rain dripping down his forehead… then it smooths out with an expression of utter disbelief when he catches a flash of the beast's lavender eyes staring intently back at him.

"Gelfrid… von Hresvelg?"  
  


* * *

"I know what I saw," Ferdinand insists as Linhardt heals the angry red scrapes and the dark bruises adorning his wrist and thumb. He sits on the edge of the bed in the room that Linhardt’s staying in, just down the hall from his and his sister’s quarters. His jacket is covered in mud and rain and bits of crunched leaves sticking to either substance, his left arm pulled out of its sleeve to be tended to by healing magic.

It’s not like he can forget what transpired back at Lady Wilhelmina's estate. Such a thing as that will cling to him forever, until the end of his days. To think, his last memories of that home were joyous ones—but those moments were long gone, replaced with beasts and blood and broken windows.

Ferdinand’s mind is racing, his teeth clenching behind pursed lips due to the sting of dirt in the raw cuts and scrapes on his skin. "You saw it too, did you not?” he asks under his breath, cautious and keeping his volume down—Luisa was just across the hall, after all. Linhardt says nothing in response, only keeps working at healing the black and blue marks on Ferdinand’s arm.

“I know you saw what I did. Its forehead… it was most certainly the Crest of Cichol,” he continues. “Gelfrid was the only one other than the Aegirs that bore that crest."

Linhardt’s hands still momentarily at the name that escapes Ferdinand’s lips. The rhythmic sound of the storm whistling and pattering against the shudders fills the quiet between them. The young mage wraps a slender hand around a particularly bad spot on Ferdinand’s arm, one where a large splinter had embedded itself into his forearm. "Well, his mother did, too,” he replies, white light working the splinter out from bruised and tender flesh, the sliver of wood falling to the rug on the floor.

"We know it cannot be her," Ferdinand counters. His words are firm in their statement of what they saw back there… but his voice is almost timid in how he utters them into the room. It’s almost as if speaking them aloud makes everything that had transpired this evening all the more real.

Afterall, they departed for the home of childhood friends only to find it abandoned and overgrown with weeds. They anticipated a hot cup of tea with the stern yet kind woman who hosted them many times before in that very house, who watched them from the porch as they played knights and bandits out in the palace gardens… the woman who wiped their tears when they fell from trees or lost their favorite toy, when their parents were busy with ministry affairs or political trips across the Empire. Instead, they found what likely were her bones, her jeweled Morgaine signet necklace laying among them.

While they cannot know for certain that those bones belonged to Lady Wilhelmina, there is an overwhelming feeling in Ferdinand’s gut that twists up and tightens his chest at the recollection of what he saw there. He had never claimed to be an intuitive man, but part of him deep down knows her fate.

Linhardt hums, seeming to echo Ferdinand’s sentiments. "True. His eyes were purple, anyway—a Hresvelg trait. Lady Wilhelmina's were brown like yours,” he adds, his deduction supporting Ferdinand’s claim.

"So you agree, then?"

"I did not say that,” the green-haired mage frowns.

"You said 'his' eyes… who else could you be referring to other than Gelfrid?” Ferdinand whispers heatedly under his breath. “It  _ had  _ to have been him! His crest… his eyes, his own mother's house!"

Linhardt’s hands pull away from Ferdinand’s wounds, leaving his left arm to drop to his lap. His blue eyes stare fiercely down at his classmate. "I don't know what to believe right now, Ferdinand. I was anticipating a nice fireside chat with Lady Mina, but we nearly got killed tonight,” he snips, allowing a pregnant pause before next speaking. “That is all we know for sure. The rest… just seems like we are grasping at straws."

The mage turns away and looks at the raindrops hitting the window, but Ferdinand can tell his mind is elsewhere.

"We have both seen man become beast before,” Ferdinand whispers softly. They had both seen one of Miklan Gautier’s thieves turn into a black beast before their very eyes at Conand Tower just a few moons ago. “Such a thing is entirely possible. And if Gelfrid was living as a beast, that would explain—"

"Explain what, exactly?” Linhardt interrupts, his tone uncharacteristically snappy again. Ferdinand grows silent, trying to exercise patience with him. rather testy behavior since he warped the two of them back here. He’s never exactly seen Linhardt be anything other than sleepy and sarcastic… so he assumes this rather testy behavior is due to the fact that they overturned the wrong stone and narrowly escaped their own demise tonight. “Man becomes beast when he wields a Relic without bearing its crest. What Heroes Relic do you suggest Gelfrid was swinging around?"

"Perhaps one of the Kingdom of Alliance houses wished to make an enemy of the Empire,” Ferdinand suggests. His classmate snorts in response, finally looking over his shoulder at him.

"Well, at least that's plausible. For a second there, I thought you were going to regale me with silly stories like the werewolves of Myrddin."

Ferdinand's brow softens in realization—quick to forgive and forget the jab just made at him. "Now that you mention it... I did read in my father's journal that there were reports made of civilians going missing following the Insurrection of Hrym, followed by a sudden surge of beasts in the territory." This observation causes Linhardt to pause and turn to face him. His expression is undecipherable, though.

"Well, all fairy tails and legends are rooted in some truth, however small it may seem," he muses, rubbing the side of his face with his palm. "You read that in your father's journal, you say? Normally I'm the nosy one. Color me impressed, Ferdinand."

A silence falls between them, Linhardt's eyes falling to the floor and Ferdinand wringing his hands in his lap, unsure of what to say. Should he thank Linhardt, for acknowledging his courage and cunning? Such a thing cannot even be called courageous—snooping around and stealing his father's private journal has left him with a sliver of guilt and an unsettling glimpse behind the curtain at the kind of man Duke Aegir is. A loveless utilitarian marriage riddled with affairs, unfruitful illegitimate heirs swept away like nothing, a contentious relationship with the Emperor at best... reading that his father swept reports of dozens and dozens of missing citizens in Hrym under the rug—called it hogwash and chalked it up to a myth or conspiracy—certainly does nothing to improve his character.

If anything, it only thickens the fog around Ferdinand's entire trip back home. Professor Byleth implored him to seek answers--begged him to look closely at his father. And though he wanted nothing more than to argue against her... to discredit her tales of an approaching war and her unwavering belief that Edelgard deserves salvation as much as the rest of Fodlan… proof of her divine foreknowledge, blood dripping down her chin as her hand clutched his fervently, was enough to cast doubt into his mind. About his father... about Edelgard and the Hresvelgs… about everything. _Perhaps this is what the Professor intended for me,_ he thinks to himself. _That the more layers I peel back, the more terrible things I am to uncover._

"You're thinking too hard again," Linhardt murmurs, his eyes studying the lines of worry on Ferdinand's forehead. "I apologize for being ostentatious. Your theory is well-founded, based on the information presented to us. Though there's no way to confirm this, of course. And it's too dangerous for us to go back—even if we did, beasts can't talk to us."

Ferdinand nods slowly. "If that is Gelfrid… how could such a thing happen? And what about the others? Is there not anyone else we can ask?"

"Without drawing unneeded suspicion? I'm pretty sure those were dark mages we saw back there—the same ones from the Holy Tomb and under Professor Jeritza's quarters."

"The Flame Emperor..."

"Yes," Linhardt agrees. "Suffice to say, it's quite unsafe for us to start questioning the identity of that beast and how it came to be."

Could she really command such a thing? She was only... Ferdinand thinks of Luisa, sleeping soundly across the hall; he could never imagine allowing such an atrocity occur to her under his watch. If that beast was Gelfrid… surely Edelgard, his own sister, his very flesh and blood, would not permit any ill to befall him. At least, not the Edelgard of his memory—she was thoughtful of others, fiercely defensive of her siblings when he or any of the other noble children squabbled with them.

"You look like you have something you want to say, Ferdinand."

"Oh," he responds quickly, smoothing his hands over the fabric of his pants, still damp from the rain, "it is nothing important. I guess I am just weary from the day." He offers Linhardt a half-hearted laugh, though he's not quite sure he buys it.

"This is certainly a lot to mull over. I just wish... I had answers. _We—"_ he corrects himself, "we had answers."

Linhardt hums and worries his lip with his thumb. "You know, there is one other person that we could speak to, yet. And while I'm not sure exactly where to pay her a visit, I do know someone that can help us."  
  
  


* * *

When Byleth arrives for a spar just after dawn breaks, Felix is relieved. Yesterday, she looked awful. After Hubert said that she had fainted on the way to the stables, Felix was pissed. He was suspicious of Hubert, of course, but he seemed too flustered to be guilty of anything.  _ Had she used her Divine Pulse to get the out of a snag when returning to the monastery? Or was it the night at Castle Gerth? _ If it wasn't for Dimitri hanging around her like a pathetic puppy, he might have noticed something was wrong.

Maybe then he could have done something—it was terribly inconvenient for her to fall ill now of all times…

Not to mention he had to wait around in the infirmary with Dimitri for hours yesterday. Enough to make him wretch. Mercedes nagged on him for pouting like her brother, which certainly just made him pout more. Getting compared to the Death Knight is not exactly a flattering compliment—but he's not sure if Mercedes really remembers that he knows.

"So, that nightmare of yours..." Felix begins as he lunges forward to strike, the wooden training sword held tightly in his grasp. His eyes are trained on Byleth, waiting for even the most minute change of her expression. She deftly avoids him, though, offering him nothing but a shrug.

"Nothing to worry about—they only happen sometimes."

"You mean this is a more than once deal?"

"We shouldn't be talking about this out here," Byleth whispers, her voice a hiss as she parries another blow.

Felix charges forward with renewed vigor, and though Byleth was able to push off the attack with two-hands on her own training blade, she staggers backward into the western corner of the training grounds. "We can and we will," he tells her decisively. He motions with his free hand to the vacant space around them. "There's no one out here; the sun is barely even in the sky. How long have you been having these nightmares?"

"I guess...." Byleth trails off, "since the beginning." It's impossible not to notice that she looks uncharacteristically lost and inattentive in that moment. Felix takes advantage of this and is able to land a hit on her shoulder, though much to his ire. He kicks the toe of his boot into the dirt.

"And you never felt the need to bring this up?" Felix barks, his tone biting.

"Why would I?" Byleth snaps back, her eyes no longer distant and cold as she fiercely glares at him as she folds her arms. "They're just dreams and nightmares."

Felix scoffs at her defiant posture—after all, two can play this game, and he's far more experienced a player at this. "You said you dreamed about Sothis in your past life... about the boar, too, for fuck's sake. That's the whole reason why you're here now, isn't it?" he challenges her. His training sword is pointed at her in accusation. "And you are going to tell me that your dreams are meaningless? When they make you scream in your sleep?"

Byleth's eyes widen at his last comment--either she didn't realize that was why they woke her up in the infirmary or it was a realization of something else entirely. Maybe both. Regardless, whatever epiphany Byleth had does not make her any more agreeable to this topic.

"They are different now," she explains, her face turning stony again. "They make no sense.... some are even of people that I don't know or recognize. Believe me Felix, they don't mean anything." Byleth's voice sounds sincere in her plea, but her expression doesn't quite match. It's like she's not looking at him, but through him. And it really strike's Felix's last nerve.

"Hmph. Just like Dimitri doesn't mean anything to you," he sneers. Suddenly her eyes refocus on him, incised. He takes a few steps toward her, raising his blade en garde wordlessly to signal the start of another bout. Her stance widens as he approaches. "You've been parading around with the boar, and then all of a sudden he shows his face down in Abyss. You really expect me to believe that Yuri put you up to that? I wasn't born yesterday, Byleth."

She doesn't hesitate before swinging her blade, the wood of their training swords knocking together loudly in the otherwise silent training grounds. The strength behind her attack is easily felt by Felix, his dominant hand barely able to maintain his grip on the weapon as he parries. He disengages and stabs his blade forward when Byleth falls off-balance, but she's quick to counter.

"So quit lying about the boar and about your nightmares. Now is a terrible time to keep secrets," he warns her.

_ "You _ want to lecture  _ me _ about secrets?" she asks, her voice cracking as her volume increases. The two engage again, wooden blades locked at a stalemate. Her stare bores into him in the same threatening way that Hubert’s does; it’s unsettling to see that expression reflected on her features. "When were you going to tell me about Yuri?"

Felix grits his teeth at the mention of that name. He narrows his eyes and bites his tongue in a rare moment of restraint, despite being incensed. Instead, he lets his blade speak for him—pushing Byleth and her wooden sword off of him and moving to strike quickly and fiercely. His crest nearly activates, but he holds it back so as to not break the sword or hurt Byleth. The junction of wood pieces at the cross guard is already creaking under his unrelenting grip, bits of the wooden blade splintering from blade-to-blade contact—the Crest of Fraldarius would leave the flimsy blade in splinters.

Byleth is barely able to parry his swing, and stumbles backward yet again. Now on the defensive, Felix's training sword bearing down on hers, she resorts to another verbal blow:

"Dimitri told me everything."

Felix's face twists up into one of spite as anger bubbles in the pit of his chest. "That boar.... I'll kill him," he all but growls.  _ Who does he think he is, anyway? He has no business gossiping about me or the company I keep, _ Felix thinks to himself.  _ It's not like the boar has made any effort to be in my company ever since  _ that day. _ He has no right. At least Yuri... _

"The boar doesn't know anything about me," Felix retorts, his voice a little too loud. If getting under his skin is Byleth's goal in this spar, she certainly has achieved it. In battle, Felix maintains a keen and cold focus—but now, he can feel the tumultuous waves of anger making him unhinged. Fury begets strength, but at the cost of precision. He's not a passionate fighter by any means—he strives to be a cold and effective killer when he needs to be. But now, he's fighting with  _ feeling;  _ uncharted and dangerous waters for him to wade through.  _ "You _ don't know anything about me."

His sword disengages from Byleth's, only to clash again in the crisp morning air between them. "I know enough," she stabs back. Though Felix has the upper hand in the beginning, she scraps her way back to a balanced fight rather quickly. This only further fuels his desire to win this bout—not only to claim a genuine victory against his professor and the most skilled swordsman he's met, but to earn the last word in this spat of theirs.

Left hand joins his right on the grip of his blade—a duck to avoid the point of her blade and a perfectly timed side step and pivot to throw off the cadence between them. Everything is set up perfectly for Felix to land a decisive blow. With one mighty final swing of his sword... the breath is knocked out of him as the broad end of Byleth's training blade whacks swiftly and unexpectedly into his flank before his own ever reaches the apex. His blade continues the trajectory of its swing, though now misdirected and unfocused as his blade cuts through the air, failing to strike its intended target.

Felix grimaces as he stands hunched over slightly, hands on his knees as he steadies his breath and tries to regain his composure. Swallowing defeat like this is ever easy for him, and this particular loss leaves an especially bitter taste in his mouth.

“For the love of  _ Seiros, _ Felix—” she shouts at him in a tone too angry for someone who just won a sparring match. The dirt and gravel of the training grounds crunches under her boots and she steps over to him. “You have to fucking guard your right side,” she demands, hitting his left elbow with the side of her wooden sword for good measure.

He doesn’t look up at her quite yet, but he nods. It’s something that Byleth has pointed out again and again—harping on him relentlessly every class or sparring session, it feels like. Not that she’s  _ wrong, _ of course. Neglecting his sword-hand side has cost him over half a dozen spars with her. He wonders fleetingly if in her past life, he got hurt in battle while not guarding his right side. Or maybe it happened in  _ this  _ life, but she turned back time to correct his fatal error?

When Felix finally does turn his eyes to Byleth, her face is frowning. Not at him, but at the empty space beside her. It’s a peculiar expression—the one that she wears when he supposes she’s conversing with the goddess. Perhaps they’re discussing all of Felix’s past mistakes in battle this very moment.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly, softly. He straightens up, watching her intently as he brushes the dust and dirt off of the front of his pants and vest. He supposes that he, too, should apologize—he was the one to bring up Dimitri to her, after all. But the apology is left unsaid as they stand in awkward silence as the autumn breeze rustles scarlet leaves across the training grounds.

“I trust you, Felix,” she says finally. He stands there motionless, arms hanging at each side—one hand holding his training sword, and the other cold and pink in the morning air.  _ Good, _ he thinks, a curious feeling of relief washing over him.  _ So  _ actually _ trust me, then. _ Maybe it’s the early morning hour that leaves him lacking his normal boldness, but again, the thoughts remain unspoken. She continues despite his silence, “And, I’ll trust that you’ll tell me if working with Yuri is a bad idea. I... I am not sure anymore.”

Felix snorts at her uncertainty. “We’re headed into the chasm this afternoon after classes… isn’t it a little late to start having doubts?”

“I haven’t had doubts because  _ you’ve _ been fine with it up to this point,” she insists. “Even after what happened at Castle Gerth…”

It takes significant effort for Felix to not outwardly cringe at the recollection of what happened at Castle Gerth. Though Byleth is referring to Yuri’s scheming, he can’t get past the other memories of that day. The beasts, the dark mages, the broken crest stones... perfect fuel for nightmares, except those things plague his thoughts during his waking hours. Felix was scrubbing the sticky black blood out from his hair and under his nails for hours.

But Yuri—somehow he knew that a Relic for his crest would be at Castle Gerth. Based on the man’s reaction to the dark mages and the beasts, Felix doubts he knew about that they were after the same Relic mysterious Relic that was never mentioned in the Church scriptures. Regardless, Yuri’s desire put all of them in grave danger that day—not dissimilar to what happened in Abyss when the Ashen Wolves crossed paths with Felix, Byleth, and the other students… or to the last time Yuri and Felix saw each other two years before then.

“He’s always been like that,” Felix says with a roll of his eyes.

“Like what?” Byleth asks. “Dishonest? Conniving? Self-serving?”

He can’t help but laugh dryly. “Yes. And he’s an ass.”

The corners of Byleth’s mouth twist up into a wry smile, but only for a second before falling back into a frown. He supposes humor won’t get him out of this topic of conversation so easily. “And you’re okay with it?” she asks him, blue eyes wide and pale hand outstretched as she motions to him. “You haven’t said more than two words to him… and obviously haven’t mentioned anything to me about—”

“My past is none of your business,” Felix cuts her off firmly.  _ How much clearer can I make myself, Byleth?  _ he thinks dourly. “It’s not relevant to our goal here—in Abyss or with whatever-the-fuck you’re planning on doing with Edelgard.”

Byleth leans in close and shushes him, a single finger pressed to her lips as her brow furrows. He rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest, tucking the wooden blade under his elbow.

“I said there was no one here, but  _ fine,” _ he retorts, lowering his volume to a whisper. “Edelgard, The Flame Emperor—  _ whatever. _ If this Chalice is real, it’s worth it to work with Yuri to find it—for no other reason than those dark mages are after it, too.”

Byleth hums. “They were after that Relic, too. The one Yuri wanted so badly… I’m just not sure I trust Yuri is on our side. Hubert was even wary about the whole thing.”

“Well, of _course_ he is!” he hisses back without missing a beat. He searches her face with equal parts irritation and disbelief—hoping that her saying such a thing was done in jest, only to find the utmost seriousness in her expression. “Hubert doesn’t want us meddling with their plans. _C’mon,_ Byleth—how hard did you hit your head when you fainted?”

She is quiet for a moment as his amber eyes burn into hers waiting for an answer. The sun finally peaks out from over the walls of the training ground, casting the space in rays of ethereal light. “Felix, my father and Manuela said that it wasn’t the first time that I fainted,” she murmurs.

Felix gives her a confused look. “Yeah… and?”

“How many times?”

“What do you mean?”

“How many _ times!”  _ she repeats herself, this time with emphasis. “If Manuela and my father… fuck, if  _ Seteth _ knows that I’ve fainted more times than just yesterday… that means I’ve been taken to the infirmary. I know I’ve fainted one other time… and that one time in class…” she recounts, averting her eyes as she makes this admission, “but neither time was I taken to see Manuela. So how many others do I not remember?”

He blinks at her. With a stupid, dumbfounded look on his face, he’s sure. But how else can he react? Before he can chastise her for keeping these things from him, he hears the doors to the training grounds creak open behind him. A glance thrown over his shoulder reveals a group of his peers filtering in for Seteth’s morning lances seminar. Sylvain is at the front of the cluster of students, and he calls out to greet Felix. The boar is next to him, and he has the audacity to wave at him—enough to make Felix’s blood boil.

He spins back around to face Byleth, whose eyes are unfocused and staring into nothing again. “Wait… you… don’t remember?” he whispers to her, just barely audible over the clattering of students grabbing lances off the weapons rack.

Byleth doesn’t respond to him, but she turns her attention to the group of students. She doesn’t realize or react to Seteth who is wishing her a good morning—she doesn’t even seem to notice the boar making his way over to her like a damn blushing fool, thinking he can wear the mask of a chivalrous nobleman.

All she seems to see is that one student is missing from class.

“Isn’t Ferdinand supposed to be back today?”

Felix scans over the group of students—the Golden Deer had their house in attendance with Lorenz, Leonie and Hilda--the latter looking like she wanted to be anywhere else but here. Half of the Blue Lions house are in attendance with Ingrid and Ashe joining Sylvain and the boar… but Petra is the only Black Eagle accounted for. No sign of Ferdinand, indeed.

“Yeah, but that’s besides the point,” he brushes off the Aegir heir’s absence. “You can’t just say something like  _ that _ and change the subject.”  
  
  


* * *

"I don't know what  _ 'favors' _ you're referring to," Lysithea asserts with a fold of her arms and pointed frown. "I don't owe you anything."

"From the other day?" Linhardt inquires. He leans forward intently with hands clasped before him, hoping that his persistence will jog her memory—or be enough of a pestering for her to acquiesce and offer her aid.

Lysithea's eyebrows raise slightly—perhaps his insistent appeal is working. "Oh, that?  _ Hardly," _ she levels with a roll of her eyes. The optimism fluttering in Linhardt's chest is stamped out as quickly as it had begun. "If anything, I owe Sylvain a favor for pulling me out of those bushes. He was the one who got there first, after all."

"Ugh, that’s not what I’m talking about," he replies in mild disgust that she lauds Sylvain of  _ all  _ people over himself. "The  _ other  _ other day." Linhardt stuffs his hand into the soft leather of his book bag, fishing out one piece of parchment in particular—a charcoal rubbing of the mysterious blue crest stone she had presented to him weeks ago.

The sight of the symbol and its two marked curved lines akin to horns of a goat makes Lysithea's pink eyes widen. "I did agree to look into that stone of yours, after all. My findings were quite interesting. Though you probably knew that already..." Linhardt continues in a whisper, waving the parchment in the air flippantly before tucking it back into the book bag on his hip. "I think you know more about that  _ replica  _ stone than you're letting on, actually."

Lysithea blinks at him, dumbstruck. "Replica? W-what is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, I think you know exactly what it means. You  _ obviously  _ knew something when you brought it to me—you would have done the research yourself had you known nothing about it. So I assume that you just wanted to confirm your suspicions with me, that's all. But I guess if you can't even entertain my wiley request... I might be far too busy to share my findings with you."

"Wait, why did you call it a replica?"

He shushes her with a finger pressed to his lips for emphasis. He doesn’t have all the answers about what that blue stone is, but he is acutely aware of the need to keep their voices down about the matter. "Because every Relic's crest stone is red... and affixed into a Goddess-given weapon. We went over this already; I thought this would be obvious to you, of all people."

She sets her jaw and tightens the fold of her arms across her chest. "So you're assuming it's fake based on the ten Relics? One of which hasn't been seen for centuries? And have you forgotten Professor Byleth's sword?"

Linhardt takes pause at the mention of the Sword of the Creator, and it's noticeably missing crest stone. He always thought it curious that the Professor is able to harness the Relic's true power without the stone in place. Was the stone removed before the sword fell into the Church's possession? Or was it damaged and shattered—lost for all of time?

"Come on—aren't you researching lost crests? I thought you were a better researcher than this, Linhardt. You can't say definitively that there  _ aren't  _ other crest stones if you already assume there  _ are  _ other crests... much less that they all look the same," she explained heatedly.

"I can say it's not a real crest stone, because you and I held it without turning into a black beast," he says with more spite than he intended. He presses his lips into a fine line and curls his hand tightly around the strap to his book bag, his short fingernails digging into the soft leather. The biting chill of rain-soaked clothes gripping tight to his skin, the flashes of lightning illuminating broken bannisters and bones on hardwood floors, and a familiar crest and set of lilac eyes that seem out of place in a creature so grotesque.

Needless to say, Lysithea quiets immediately, her face softening into a peculiar expression. She looks almost... upset? Did he raise his voice too much at her? Was there something offensive about what he said?

"You're as frustrating as ever, you know that?" she says, shaking her head. "But on that note... I, um, actually have something that I've found about the stone that I want to share with you, too—"

Linhardt tuts and holds a hand up to cut her off. "I'm afraid I won't have time to discuss that with you until you agree to help me. I did miss out on many naps while researching for you..." he tells her.

Sure, he's dramatizing his exhaustion—he knows full well it's not from researching the blue crest stone, per se. The lack of napping in his schedule has been a direct result of scouring the library in Abyss, pouring over banned books to find little bits about Zanado and the Chalice of Beginnings that he, Claude, Hilda, and the others search for on every available free day or night. But, those are all things that Lysithea need not know about... Ferdinand either, for that matter. It's best that Ferdinand remains unaware, and that Lysithea believes that she is indebted to Linhardt's long and tedious research.

Still, it looks like she won't budge on the matter. Linhardt hums to himself as he remembers one more bargaining chip he has yet to employ, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile at the thought of it.

"You know, if you can find it in your heart to help me… I know a way for you to learn Bolting,” he offers. Her intense pink stare flicks up to him, her interest piqued but her expression still skeptical. “Not from Hilda, don’t worry,” he adds, earning a sigh of relief from Lysithea.

"Fine," Lysithea yields. Linhardt releases a long breath himself. "Fine—I'll hear your request. But I'll only listen after Ferdinand stops being weird and hiding behind the corner."

It's Linhardt's turn to pale as he spins around. "What—"

"What do you take me for—a fool?" Lysithea snaps back, interrupting him for the second time. She moves her gaze over his shoulder at the classroom door, just slightly ajar.  _ "Honestly. _ Why do you have to be hiding like that?"

Ferdinand, with all of the grace and nauseating formality of his noble training, steps out from behind the stone classroom wall. He rounds the corner with his hands held up like an act of surrender.

"My apologies, Lysithea,” he bows. “Linhardt assumed that you would not listen to me. Afterall, we do not share the rapport that you and he—"

Lysithea breaks down into giggles, her small pale hand covering her mouth as her laughs openly mock the two Black Eagles. “Wait, is  _ that  _ what he told you?” she asks Ferdinand in between her snickering. "I wouldn't quite call it that.”

Ferdinand looks over at Linhardt with a beleaguered expression, one that Linhardt sheepishly avoids. Normally he isn’t one for regrets, but he’s certainly feeling that way about this situation he put himself in. It’s not like he  _ lied  _ to Ferdinand--he merely embellished and encouraged him to sit this one out so that some of his and Lysithea’s conversation could remain as private as possible. She’s correct in saying they don’t have the  _ friendliest  _ of relations, but their shared study into the blue crest stone benefits from being kept from Ferdinand. That was Linhardt’s only intention in persuading his housemate to stand by--though perhaps it was rather naïve of him to assume that Ferdinand would simply follow his suggestion.

“Anyway, what could your request  _ possibly  _ be that you had to hide?" she asks Ferdinand pointedly.

"Lady Rosalind,” he answers back just as frank.

A pregnant pause settles uncomfortably between the three of them. It is so quiet that they could hear one of Bernadetta’s embroidery needles drop on the classroom floor, Linhardt supposes. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he awaits her response.

"Lady Rosalind," she repeats back. Lysithea wears an expression that Linhardt can’t get a read on. The first time she says the name, it’s like she is rehearsing the words like an opera singer reads from a script. She says it a second time, though more as a question. "You mean  _ her?" _

Linhardt decides to take the reins back in this conversation to move it along. His patience is wearing thin, after all. He rolls his eyes and curls his left hand around the strap of his book bag, gesturing with his other. "Yes,  _ her. _ The former empress consort. And your father's third cousin, if I am not mistaken."

"What of her?"

"Is she alive?"

Lysithea hesitates. "Yes… why does that matter to you both?"

"We wish to visit her, of course,” Linhardt states matter-of-factly. “If you could be so kind as to direct us to her current residence; I assume she moved back to your territory—”

"You didn’t answer my question,” Lysithea interrupts. Her eyes narrow and she folds her arms across her chest again. She even physically takes a step back from them, and it’s enough to drive Linhardt positively batty with how obstinate she is acting.  _ This is just as maddening as dealing with Hubert, _ he thinks to himself. Luckily, Ferdinand steps in and tries his hand at speaking with her.

"Lysithea, please allow me to explain,” he offers gently. He sighs when her body language doesn’t soften in the slightest. “Linhardt and I both grew up with Lady Rosalind and her children, Bertram and Eleonora. Our intentions are simply to visit them. It has been far too long since we have seen our childhood friends. It would be much appreciated if you could help us find them."

She takes a moment before responding, and the expression on her face is most peculiar. When Lysithea opens her mouth to finally speak, her voice lacks its normal confidence. "You want to visit them?"

"Yes,” Ferdinand nods. “It has been a long time."

"Well, if that’s really what you want…” she draws out, looking to both of them for even more confirmation of what they had already told her. When they both insist yet again, she acquiesces. “I guess I can warp you there later this week."

"Tomorrow would suffice," Linhardt interjects.

Lysithea frowns at him again, seemingly back to her normal self. "Tomorrow? I have class all day. Why not today if you’re in such a hurry?” she snaps at him. “We have a half-day of classes today—you  _ do  _ remember that, don’t you?"

"I’m preoccupied later today,” Linhardt tells her. He promised Professor Byleth and the Ashen Wolves that he’d aid in yet another search party for the legendary Chalice of Beginnings while everyone was at afternoon services in the Cathedral. Sure, he’d rather be napping the afternoon away or enjoying a long lunch with Caspar, but the curiosities of Abyss are just one of many that have stolen his attention away lately. “But  _ tomorrow  _ you're free after our faith seminar, and you know Manuela will let us out early. Ferdinand, you can meet us behind the dorms after third bell, correct?"

"Yes… though I will miss our tactics lecture after lunch…" he says, motioning to Lysithea.

"I will, too!” she agrees. “C’mon, can't this wait until later in the week, Linhardt?"

He stays firm and shakes his head—they’d all be in Gronder for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion at the end of the week, anyway. And out of all of Linhardt’s research endeavors, the matter of the Hresvelgs was top on his list for personal reasons. Not to mention, he’s sure Ferdinand will worry himself to death if they don’t visit Bertram and Eleonora soon.

"No can do,” Linhardt presses. “Unless you'd rather wait on learning what I have to say about that...  _ thing  _ of yours. Besides, with your grades, you can afford to skip class once."

Lysithea tightens her arms and maintains the same scowl. Ferdinand sighs in resignation—he and Linhardt both sorely underestimated how stubborn Lysithea would be about all of this. "How about I teach you Cutting Gale—as added incentive for accommodating us on such short notice. That is, of course, in addition to my research… and someone to teach you Bolting. What say you?"

Finally, the corners of Lysithea’s mouth soften slightly, her expression regaining her characteristic smugness. "Deal."

* * *

As the bells of the Cathedral toll high above them during the afternoon service, Byleth pulls herself to her feet after being tossed aside by a towering metal contraption that moves and speaks like a human might. There are five or six of them at _least,_ and even though she and her students had the advantage in numbers... whatever magic possessed them imbued the metal beings with enough sense to separate the students from one another.

One had Dimitri and Hapi both pinned against the crag at one end of the field, and another had pushed Constance away from Hubert and Balthus. Now vulnerable, she casts an ice spell that does little to slow the momentum of the contraption pursuing her. Byleth is over a hundred yards away as she sees the metal being close in on the young mage; she calls out for help as she scans the chasm around her for someone—anyone who is free that can help.

A hand brushes against her bicep. “I’ll help Constance—you three can make it to the pillars, yeah?” Yuri asks, pushing past her. He grabs her free hand and presses a stone disc into her palm—the engraved fragment they had taken from one of the fallen metal foes. “This should fit into one of them.”

Byleth nods and Yuri warps across the expanse of the chasm to shield Constance from one of the moving contraptions. Claude leads the way as Linhardt and Byleth follow behind, running as quickly as they can across the rocky and uneven ground beneath them. Her lungs are burning. They’re closing in on stone pillars at the far end of the chasm—the ones Yuri pointed out—when one of the towering metal beings begin to close in on them from the right.

_ Shit shit shit… _

“Teach! You and Lin go ahead—I’ll take care of it,” Claude says, reaching back to his quiver.

Linhardt can barely maintain his breath while running, but he manages to wheeze, “But an arrow won’t do anything!”

Claude stops running and notches an arrow, aiming at the incoming contraption. He laughs as Byleth pulls Linhardt by the fabric of his sleeve to get him to move faster. He releases a series of arrows at the being—each one pinging against the metal exterior and falling pathetically to the ground. It fixates on Claude, the sound of metal grinding as it alters its course away from Byleth and Linhardt and toward him as he draws the being south toward the entrance to the chasm.

When Byleth and Linhardt reach the first pillar, they realize it has a triangular-shaped carved impression—something that won’t fit the stone disc in her hand. She swears under her breath as Linhardt continues to panic about Claude.

“He’s buying us time,” she breathes, pulling Linhardt by his sleeve again as she races across the rocky earth of the chasm down to the next pillar. The green-haired mage nearly topples over once they reach the second pillar. He tries to catch his breath as he provides cover for Byleth as she fumbles with the stone disc, trembling with adrenaline and fear and excitement that this pillar has a circular slot.

She fits the keystone into the impression, and for a split second she holds her breath. Her fingers stay put over the Crest of Flames that is engraved into the stone disc as she prays and hopes that it will do something—  _ anything. _

“Oh, goddess…” Linhardt murmurs. She looks at him, at his eyes blown wide at the pillar before them. Turning back to look at the monolith, she sees arcane symbols and carvings alight with golden glow all over the stone. Byleth and Linhardt both marvel at the sight before them until a rumbling beneath their feet tears their attention away. As they try to keep their balance, they look out over the chasm and see the metal contraptions grind and creak as they come to a halt.

The rumbling ceases as well, but the pillar is still aglow with streaming light. Linhardt runs his fingers along the carvings wordlessly. One by one, the other students and the Ashen Wolves join him and Byleth at the pillar as they marvel in the sight.

“Hey, don’t they look like Crests?” Hapi chimes in, wiping the sweat from her brow. Before anyone can respond, there’s another rumble that shakes the ground beneath them. Byleth feels a pair of large hands on her shoulders, and she turns her head to see that it’s Dimitri holding her upright—a small comfort.

“What is going on?” Hilda whines as she clings to Balthus’ jacket.

“Well, whatever it is, it seems to have stopped,” Claude remarks, walking closer to the edge of the crag behind the pillar to inspect. “Hey, there’s something here!”

Chatter breaks out amongst them as Constance and Hapi are the first to push their way to Claude. “Oh, can it really be?” Constance asks as she reaches down into the cracks in the rock and pulls out a golden goblet.

Hapi’s eyes widen as the blonde mage lifts the item in the air for the group to see. It’s a glass with foot and stem of brilliantly shining gold. A myriad of gemstones adorn the sides of the cup, along with more arcane symbols that are similar to those on the stone pillar. “Wait… is that…” 

“You would know best,” Constance sighs. “It is beyond my ken whether that is the chalice. Curse my ignorance…”

“Oh come on now, Constance. Answer the question, will ya?” Balthus groans. “Is it or isn’t it?”

The blonde shakes her head disparagingly. “That quaking earlier... Some kind of containment magic was in place here. Whether intentionally or not, the chalice was released. I hesitate to suggest that those things were the cause,” she explains, maintaining her unusual dismal display of behavior. “Oh, perhaps one of our Crests was the key to unbinding the chalice…”

“Uh, care to summarize that for us?” Hapi asks, nudging Linhardt.

“Forgotten Crests resembling those of the Four Apostles,” he declares, pointing at the arcane carvings on the stone pillar that are still illuminated. “Magical moving objects that resemble holy armaments and a chalice that gathers magic all on its own... I don't know of any other legends that cover all of that, so by my deduction, this must be the chalice we're looking for.”

“Thank goodness you’re back, kiddo,” Balthus exclaims, slapping Linhardt a little too hard on the back. The green-haired mage yelps as he rubs his now tender shoulder. “By the way, mind healing this?” Balthus extends one of his hands to reveal raw and bleeding knuckles. Linhardt turns pale at the sight and looks like he’s about to empty his stomach right then and there.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Returning to Abyss was walking into chaos. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as her father always says. Byleth didn’t even have enough time to get a drink of water or have her wounds healed before they all were greeted by distraught residents.

One of them rushes up to Yuri, clinging to his arm as they anxiously recount what had happened in the Ashen Wolves’ absence. “Some strangers from the outside have kidnapped Master Aelfric! It happened as soon as he returned from the monastery. Bandits were lying in wait.”

“Dammit,” Balthus growls. “How could this happen?”

“It is not their fault, Balthus. This was clearly premeditated. I am certain it is connected to the bandits that have been afoot as of late,” Constance proclaims fiercely.

“They probably waited for us to leave, then struck while we were away,” Yuri shakes his head. He turns to look back at the pair of residents. “Bring any wounded here. We’ll patch them up with healing magic. Wait…” He stands on his toes and surveys the crowd gathering on Burrow Street. “Where’s Hapi? And Linhardt?”

“Right here,” Hapi announces, pushing her way through to him. She thrusts a piece of parchment over to him. “Yuri—take a look at this. Linhardt and I found this in our classroom when we went to find Aelfric.”

Yuri accepts the parchment, unfolding it to read aloud the contents to the group:

> _ We have abducted Cardinal Aelfric. We can guarantee his safety, for now. If you want to help him, meet us tomorrow evening in the ruins of the old chapel. Bring the chalice. Know that if you alert the knights, the cardinal's life will be forfeit. _

“Heh, a ransom note. Aelfric for the Chalice…” Hubert muses darkly, worrying his chin with his gloved hand. Byleth notices how far away in thought he seems to be, much like he was the other night over the fire. She’s so accustomed to Hubert being calculating, three moves ahead of everyone else, that seeing him fret like this at a loss for words is… unsettling.

“Then our enemy really  _ is  _ after the Chalice. All the while, they were waiting for us to locate it for them... No... No! Something about this does not ring true!” Constance trumpets. Her free hand makes a fist at the side of her skirt in frustration, the other still clutching the Chalice close to her chest.

Claude steps over to Yuri and peers over his shoulder to read the letter himself. He hums. “The identities of the cardinals and other high-ranking Church officials are closely guarded secrets,” he adds. “And Aelfric’s status was disclosed in that letter. Me personally? I think the letter came from someone within the Church. You did tell us that the Church hates Abyss, right?”

Yuri nods tersely.

“A power struggle within the Church?” Hubert wonders aloud.

Constance tuts, stamping her foot on the ground. “That aside… how did the enemy know we were searching for the Chalice to begin with? This can only mean that someone in Abyss is—”

“You guys smell a rat,” Yuri interrupts her. “Someone who notified the Church of our plan to find the Chalice.”

An eerie silence falls over the group after Yuri’s words. Byleth clenches her jaw, unsure of what to do next. She can feel her students’ eyes on her waiting for her to add her thoughts to the mix, but she doesn’t have words to say. Thankfully, Yuri’s rogues show up demanding his attention.

“What do you need from us, boss?” they ask.

“Have you alerted the church?” Yuri asks, his purple eyes so clear and intense it’s unnerving.

The rogues shake their heads. “Not yet. Do you really think we should? If we cause too much trouble—”

With a wave of his hand, Yuri interrupts them. “Now isn’t the time to worry about that! You should have notified the archbishop right away.”

Byleth can feel a pit form in her stomach. She steps forward and speaks up before Yuri can continue or his rogues can agree to any of his orders. “Stop, Yuri. Are you sure that is best? Can we really trust them? My students shouldn’t even be down here. They could all be _expelled.”_

“We're in no position to cover something like this up,” he snaps back at her. She grits her teeth in response, her unease growing rapidly. Discord breaks out amongst her students as panic begins to sprout. “The Church has eyes and ears everywhere, so they may already know what's going on anyway.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, Professor,” Hilda chimes in nervously. “Certainly Lady Rhea will understand—”

Felix steps in and interjects, sneering in Hilda’s direction. “Do you even realize how fucked we are when she finds out what we’ve all been doing down here? You heard Claude and Linhardt say that Abyss is off limits to students,” he argues. Next he turns to face Yuri, his glare shooting daggers at him. “And we stole a fucking Relic and a magical Chalice? How can we possibly explain  _ that  _ to Rhea?”

“You stole a  _ Relic?”  _ Hapi asks Yuri, bewildered.

Hilda looks like she’s about to cry, and Balthus looks like he’s about to punch Yuri in the face. Linhardt just looks… angry. “Professor… is that true?” he asks her, his voice still calm despite his hurt expression.

Byleth can’t even meet his gaze. She feels backed into a corner, the shame burning in her chest from failing to protect her students. Was it really the right choice to get caught up in all of this? Regardless, things have progressed too much for her to justify pulsing back that far to undo all of it. Even if she did go back, events would still play out the same without her involvement—the Flame Emperor’s dark mages will seek out the Chalice, and Aelfric will still try to champion the people of Abyss to an unlistening and uncompassionate Church. There’s only so much she alone can do to help—

_ Wait, _ Byleth thinks to herself.  _ What if... _

“Yuri, maybe we can use Church to our advantage here without involving Lady Rhea,” she offers. He gives her a skeptical look, so she continues. “Let me have the letter. I can bring it to someone else we can trust--they can help us.”

“You’re sure about that?”

Byleth nods. “Come with me. Bring the Chalice, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello there! Long time no see! If you've read this far, thank you so much for sticking with me thru my hiatus :)
> 
> I last updated in August (!!) and mentioned that I got a new job and was moving to a new city for it... basically uprooting my life which was already uprooted by this pandemic and shit show of a year. Anyway, it took me a lot longer than I anticipated to get acclimated to everything. But I am happy to report that things are OK now, I've settled into my new home and job.
> 
> I do work in healthcare, though, so things are batshit crazy right now. I don't wish anyone to see what I have to see everyday--it is heartbreaking and exhausting. Please, stay safe and be responsible. Keep your loved ones safe. And tell your loved ones that you love them! We might not be able to give them hugs right now, but call them or video chat them! :)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all are doing well. I appreciate all of your comments and kudos very much! I look forward to reading your response to this chapter in the coming days.


	12. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance practices transmutation. Seteth reunites with a familiar face. Hubert makes an unlikely ally; Linhardt makes a key discovery. Byleth digs into Yuri's past. Felix experiences a break-in. Claude tries to enjoy his lunch.
> 
> “Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune, Thy valor and thy heart—thou art a traitor, False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father."  
>  _-King Lear, 5.3.139-141_

The first time Constance met Hubert, she was eight years old and he was nine. And even back then, he towered over her and all of the other noble children. Their height was only one of their many stark differences.

She enjoyed tea time while he often let his tea grow cold, refusing to drink it. She loved singing during Church services when she visited Enbarr—her voice ringing about the sonorous ceilings of the Southern Cathedral. He was embarrassed about his singing voice, so he only mouthed the words to make it appear as though he was a part of the choir—though she noticed that the older he got, the less he pretended and the more resentful he became that he had to attend service at all. Constance always vied for the starring role in the skits they would throw for their tutors and the palace servants, often unabashedly competing with middle Hresvelg daughters for lead. Hubert shied away from the skits altogether, though Ferdinand and Caspar frequently tried to convince him to join in.

He might have participated if Edelgard had asked him, but only if _she_ asked. Constance hated doing what others bid her to do—whether that was her tutors, her parents, or her peers. Hubert, on the other hand, had always been more obedient than her and _always_ did what was asked of him. Perhaps that difference was due to their fathers, who shared a mutual dislike of one another. Marquis Vestra demanded much of her father, Count Jean-Luc von Nuvelle, when he was alive.

Over the years, Marquis Vestra pushed relentlessly for her father to raise tariffs on Dagdan goods on behalf of the Emperor, who feared that the city of Nuvelle—the most profitable port city in all of Fódlan—would grow an economy strong enough to be sovereign of the Empire. Her father, of course, refused for many long and difficult years, clinging to the cooperative relationship he had cultivated with Dagda in both trade and diplomacy. However, the Minister of the Imperial Household also operated in the shadows, hiring mercenaries to threaten harm and even death upon his wife and Constance and her siblings.

His defiance could only withstand so much—especially with his progeny at risk. His giving in was arguably her father’s ultimate undoing—the relations with Dagda soured quite quickly, eventually leading to war with the Empire that claimed his life.

But even before that, Marquis Vestra also asked Constance’s father to step down as the Empire’s leading magical scholar and advisor. When he refused that time, the Marquis persuaded each of the other ministers to lobby Count Nuvelle out of his position; the Emperor relented and helped to remove him from his role due to the insistent pressure of the Imperial ministers. It was a sad day for the Nuvellean bloodline, who had long served the Emperor with their magical gifts. Later her father would find out that his removal from his post was at the request of Duke Aegir, who wished to replace the Emperor’s magical council with mages from foreign lands.

Afterall, a Vestra does as he is told.

Perhaps that’s where Hubert gets his unshakable loyalty to the Imperial Princess… despite everything that he has told her, the seemingly insurmountable corruption that has run rampant through their own families and the powers that be… he is loyal to their mission to seek not only justice, but vengeance upon those like his father and Duke Aegir. Those who preyed on others, who systematically dismantled the Hresvelg bloodline for their own gain… and despite the burden of grief and treason against her family weighing so heavily upon the Princess, despite how terrifying the forces she strives to rise against… Hubert is steadfast in his loyalty to this daunting task.

Because his role asks him to do so, he wears Edelgard’s burdens upon his own shoulders, too.

He isn’t wearing it well, though, Constance must admit. She sees his frame hunched over one of the tables in the Wilting Rose Inn, and he looks exhausted as he nurses a mug of what can only be the bitter and watery ale that they serve here in Abyss. Constance brushes her palms over her skirt and paces over to his table, perching on the stool across from him.

“I did not expect to find you here, Hubert,” she tells him, intently trying to smooth any irritation out of her voice. While she was surprised to see him practically run off after Yuri and Byleth left to seek assistance for Aelfric’s kidnapping and ransom, her frustration stems from that _entire_ awful situation, not just Hubert’s sudden disappearance.

The dark-haired mage sighs, his shoulders slumping forward as he leans his elbows on the table. Gloved hands curl around the mug before he raises it to his lips for a drink. It’s difficult not to notice pronounced dark circles under his eyes, blue and purple blotches almost like bruises. Constance wonders when he last had a full night’s rest.

“To be frank, I didn’t expect this, either,” he tells her grimly.

“I thought you did not drink,” she observes, smelling the alcohol on his breath. Constance frowns at him as he smirks and takes another sip.

“Today demands it,” he remarks dryly. “It’s not like they serve coffee in a place like this, anyway.”

A twinge of pity finds its way into Constance’s chest at the sight of him—a man of resolve and determination sitting and wallowing over cheap ale. It’s not like Aelfric’s disappearance directly affects him—he is _her_ steward as an Abyssian, not his. She doubts that Hubert is truly that concerned with being expelled by Lady Rhea, for his father and his closeness with the Imperial princess would certainly secure him a lesser punishment than his peers. It’s almost as if… it is something else _entirely_ that is bothering him.

“I sense that you know something, Hubert. Something that you have yet to divulge to myself and the others,” she prods him.

“Haven’t I already divulged enough to you? Certainly more than what was wise,” he quips back, his retort lacking its normal venom.

Constance huffs, unsatisfied with his non-answer. She ponders for a moment what more he could possibly be concealing. Wasn’t the suffering of the Hresvelg children at the hands of his father and Duke Aegir more than plenty of a burden? Or his and Lady Edelgard’s plans to strip the ministers of their power and restructure the Empire upon graduation from the Officer’s Academy? Certainly there cannot be anything stressing him more than that.

She reaches a hand across the table, covering Hubert’s mug of ale with her palm. Her eyes flutter shut, and a pink glow of light cascades over the mug and the tabletop from her fingers. Removing her hand, she opens her eyes to watch Hubert inspect the contents of the mug—and for a small smile to turn up at the corners of his mouth. The rich and warm aroma of hot coffee wafts around them as he swirls the dark liquid in the mug.

“Thank you, Constance,” he murmurs. When Hubert draws the cup to his lips to drink, the sleeve of his Academy jacket rides up his forearm, exposing the pale skin there under the fabric… and a set of angry looking scars. They are bright pink in color, suggesting they are freshly healed—though poorly, at that, with how raised and uneven they are.

“Where did you get those?” she asks, pointing to the jagged marks on his arm. He quickly lowers the mug to the table and tugs his jacket sleeve back down.

“You don’t have to worry about me, I assure you. They were healed—”

“Well, whoever healed them did a downright dreadful job doing so,” she snaps back, furrowing her brow. The feeling of pity in Constance’s chest is shoved aside by a sprinkle of dread and anxiety. She reaches across the table again, this time grabbing his wrist and rotating his forearm to get a closer look at the scars. Surprisingly, he does not resist or pull away. “I don’t recall you getting injured at Castle Gerth… or this afternoon in the chasm, for that matter.”

She stares intently at Hubert’s gaunt face, at his tired and sunken green eyes that remain downcast and quite unlike himself. But he doesn’t react or respond—doesn’t even meet her gaze! Constance’s anxiety grows, branching out and unfurling like vines as it tangles up inside her.

“Our fathers fought against each other until the very end,” Hubert tells her. His words jar Constance, causing her hand to stiffen around his wrist. She braces herself against the rush of emotion and tragic memories of that day, and of the years of violence and discord that Marquis Vestra waged against her father.

“Let us be different from them— _better_ than them,” he continues. “I require your help, and I find myself trusting you, Constance. I hope that is not my undoing.”

“What are you not telling me?” she pleads, her voice a whisper.

  
  
  


* * *

He recognizes the knock at his door immediately—three light raps in a rhythmic succession. With a sigh, Seteth puts down his quill and neatly arranges the documents he was penning into a tidy stack. Rising from his desk, he takes all but a few paces before the door swings open before him, revealing Professor Byleth.

“Where have you been?” he asks, blinking at her disheveled appearance. Her hair and cloak are covered in dirt or dust, and her boots track in little bits of gravel that roll across his office floor. For a moment, he wonders if the layer of dirt clinging to her is residual from her early morning session at the training grounds. She had seemed quite distracted earlier that day—she didn’t even return his greetings. Needless to say, when he didn’t see her at the cathedral this afternoon, he began to worry that she had landed herself back in the infirmary.

“You did not attend service this afternoon, Byleth,” he continues. “While I can accept that students may have different priorities for an afternoon off, these services are mandatory for—”

His words taper off into a stunned silence as a shock of lilac hair wanders into his office behind Byleth. Certainly, this is not who he expected to be standing before him—the problematic Yuri Leclerc who had brought a host of trouble to the monastery just two years ago. The young man frequented detention with Seteth, and ultimately was expelled and slated for execution for his crimes against the Church. Unbelievably, Aelfric advocated for his sentence to be annulled—to which the Archbishop was swayed by his words and made it so.

Seteth doesn’t know what Lady Rhea saw in that face of his the day she let him free. Because when he looks upon that same face now, he cannot help feeling anger that he has the audacity to sidle his way back into the monastery and stroll so casually into his office. Not to mention that he is accompanying Byleth. He tenses at the thought of what trouble he has roped her into.

“Never thought you’d see your favorite student again, huh, Seteth?” he remarks, a playful look on his face.

“No, I did not, quite frankly,” Seteth replies curtly. He refuses to meet Yuri’s gaze, instead focusing his attention on Byleth. “Professor, can you please explain what brings you both here?”

Byleth asks Yuri to close the door to his office, and he quickly understands why. She tells them that she and some of the students had ended up down in Abyss after two of them in particular—Claude and Linhardt—devised a way to access the underground tunnels and village. Seteth is not surprised at the former, given how Claude is frequently challenging and prying into matters that are not his own; Linhardt, however… Seteth feels a prick of disappointment at the young von Hevring. While indolent and often disengaged from his classes, it certainly is surprising to hear of his delinquency.

Seteth increasingly becomes unnerved as Byleth continues her tale—about the dark mages and rogues, the Death Knight, and the Chalice of Beginnings. Yuri unveils the Chalice for him to witness, but he can’t stand to look at it for more than a passing glance; the artifact does not carry the happiest of memories for Seteth. Byleth informs him of Aelfric’s disappearance—likely a kidnapping given the ransom note she shows him. At the conclusion of her report, she begs him with folded hands and damp eyes to not discipline the students for their participation.

He takes a measured breath and pinches the bridge of his nose before speaking. Afterall, he is still trying to process everything and remain calm and professional—quite a feat given all three house leaders and one of the Academy’s professors were descending into Abyss multiple times a week right under his nose—often at night, where they were crossing paths with the same mysterious trespassers that were the reason for the Monastery implementing a curfew in the first place. Even more so, according to Byleth’s description, these dark mages and rogues likely are among the Flame Emperor’s ranks… the same group that kidnapped Flayn not long ago.

The muscles in Seteth’s face begin to twitch from frowning so intensely. He clears his throat and looks squarely at Byleth, as he’s certain that even catching a glimpse of Yuri would cause him to lose his cool and raise his voice.

“Professor, as you know these are serious violations that you have not only partaken in, but have encouraged your students to do so as well,” he warns, articulating each word tensely. “And with a situation as grave as this, we must alert Lady Rhea so we can ensure Aelfric’s safety.”

“Please, Seteth,” she interjects suddenly, her voice intense and pleading. “Please leave Lady Rhea out of this. The ransom note says—”

“This simply cannot be up for negotiation,” Seteth says firmly, cutting her off.

His arms are folded across his chest as he peers down at Byleth. A series of emotions play out over her face—first a flash of hurt, then a moment of despair that shifts quickly into a hardened gaze and set jaw. Seteth exhales, taking a few steps forward past both Byleth and Yuri to his office door. As his hand reaches out for the handle, Byleth causes him to halt.

“I know that you have been storing the Church’s banned books down in Abyss,” she states plainly.

Seteth lets his fingertips brush over the wrought iron door handle before allowing his arm to fall completely to his side. A wave of regret knocks into him forcefully, washing away everything except fear and self-loathing, leaving him feeling exposed. He recalls every single moment over the last twenty years that he’d taken books from the Monastery shelves and never had the courage to discard them the way that he should have… the way he was expected to. But to burn the pages of a book felt too similar to his own past. It felt too much like villages being pillaged by warring armies, families massacred in their beds, or an entire people leaving this realm in a single tragic night.

He could never bring himself to commit such acts—the killing, the warring, or the burning. Instead, he opted for what he felt was most just—saving. And the place for the books to be safe is in Abyss, out of the Archbishop’s eye.

Tilting his head to look over his shoulder back at her, he sucks in a breath.

“What do you need from me?

To add ire to his humiliation, Yuri is the one who answers him instead. “First off, you can not walk out that door to tell Rhea. Then, you can help us by barring the Knights from responding to this little situation,” he speaks so casually and unbothered.

“It is hardly a _little_ situation,” Seteth replies through gritted teeth. “Aelfric not only is your benefactor, but also a cardinal of the Church of Seiros. He aids more lives than just your own, Yuri. You will do good to remember that.”

Yuri laughs derisively back at him. “As uptight as ever. Believe what you want, but this will be an easy mission. We will just do as we’re asked—give these dastards the Chalice, and we get Aelfric back safely. Plus, we have the Sword of the Creator on our side if things go south,” he explains, winking at Byleth.

“The Chalice is a holy relic,” Seteth clarifies, his voice raising to a decibel where those walking down the hallway outside his door would easily be able to hear. He stops himself before yells at Yuri again, straightening his posture and touching his golden circlet with his fingertips. _Have I forgotten myself?_ Seteth laments inwardly. It’s almost embarrassing how easily Yuri has gotten under his skin and caused him to lash out—made worse by the fact that the young man seems to take a perverse delight in striking a nerve.

“Why would these dark mages want the Chalice, anyway?” Byleth asks.

Yuri scoffs in response. And with a roll of his eyes, he takes a seat on the arm of one the upholstered chairs. “Why does it matter? They have Aelfric—”

“It _matters_ if you knew of the legend of the Chalice,” Seteth asserts, his tone quieter but still just as biting. “The Chalice was used by Saint Seiros and the Four Apostles to conduct the Rite of—”

“The Rite of Rising, I know, I know,” Yuri interrupts with a wave of his hand. “The Apostles were supposed to resurrect the goddess with that Chalice, but it failed, to no one’s surprise. So they threw it down to the bottom of that goddess-forsaken chasm to be forgotten about.”

 _I have not forgotten,_ Seteth thinks to himself. _The world might have, with Rhea expunging all records of the ritual and of the Four Apostles, but I could_ never _forget._ Seteth bites his tongue as Yuri continues his rant.

“This Chalice is nothing more than a dusty old cup. You cannot tell me that the Rite and the Chalice have any more substance than legend. Resurrect the goddess? Year after year, you lock the Archbishop up in that tower and all of Fódlan prays for the return of the goddess, and still she has not returned,” Yuri finishes bitterly.

Part of Seteth wishes to argue with him—the same part of him that is incensed by his words that attack his faith. But he presses his lips into a thin line instead, knowing it wise not to attempt to change Yuri’s mind on the matter. Afterall, he simply could not understand his faith given he had never seen the goddess, spoken with her, or heard her song.

“Regardless of what you believe, Yuri, I doubt it is safe to just hand over the Chalice to the Flame Emperor’s men,” he warns yet again.

Before Yuri can offer a rebuttal, the door to his office swings open behind him, bringing in a gust of cool air from the hallway. Seteth swivels around to be met with mint hair and ivory robes adorned with gold embroidery.

“Such a thing would be harmless, Seteth, given how to perform the Rite has been lost to time,” she interrupts, her voice a soothing cadence that wafts into the room along with the scent of lilies. The metallic clack of sabatons precede Alois, the captain of the Knights of Seiros, also entering his office. “Besides, without the Four Apostles, the Chalice is useless.”

The incandescent glow of Lady Rhea’s eyes fixate only on him, just as her words were only for him. Afterall, only _he_ would know what she meant. The Four Apostles—four of their Nabatean brethren. They had allied themselves with him and his wife, daughter, and brothers during the War of Heroes. After their victory over Nemesis and the Elites, Lady Rhea turned her attention to founding the Church of Seiros and constructing the monastery… and with the Sword of the Creator and the other Relics in her possession at last, she devoted much of her time to finding magical means to return the goddess and their fallen brethren to this realm.

One of those attempts was the Chalice of Beginnings, but the Rite of Rising was an utter failure. Lady Rhea requested the Four Apostles to attempt the ritual a second time; she asked them to give up everything for the ritual, but the four declined. This enraged Lady Rhea, and caused the Apostles to abandon the monastery and the Church of Seiros. They vanished to the corners of Fódlan, and maybe even beyond. This was cause for Seteth and the other saints to leave as well, and go into hiding for centuries.

Seteth was residing in a small village at the base of the mountains of Fódlan’s Throat when he learned that Lady Rhea had sought out the humans of the Empire that the Four Apostles had passed their crests onto—in the same vengeful way she hunted down the 10 Elites. He remembers that day well, for he scooped up his sleeping daughter in his arms and made the dangerous trek across the mountains to seek refuge in Almyra. Fearful that she would come after her own kind next, he needed to be far removed from Lady Rhea and the violence that so often plagued the lands of Fódlan.

He won’t say that time heals all wounds, but it does allow scars to form. The reminders of the past will always be there, and though the pain and loss are absent, what once was can never be that way again. Nearly a thousand years it took for Seteth to be willing to return; Fódlan looked much different, and Rhea seemed different. And he had always had more forgiveness in his heart than she. He wonders now and again if she feels regret for what transpired back then. He has seen her pray and talk to the Sword of the Creator when she kept it in her empty tomb; was she asking the goddess for forgiveness for all she has done?

“Lady Rhea,” he addresses her with a quick bow. “I apologise for not bringing this matter to you before—”

“No apology needed,” the archbishop assures him. “Yuri sent one of his men to alert Alois and I of Aelfric’s disappearance.”

“You _what?”_ Byleth snaps, causing everyone in the room to jump at the sudden interjection. The anger in the professor’s eyes burns intensely as she stares daggers into Yuri.

“Do not fret, Professor. All is well,” Lady Rhea smiles at her, though it does little to soften Byleth’s expression. The archbishop moves over to Yuri who hands her the golden Chalice. “You’ve given Seteth the ransom note, if I am not mistaken. And now that we have the Chalice of Beginnings, I will deliberate with Alois and Seteth about our next steps. If you could please excuse yourselves for a moment.”

Yuri asks Byleth to follow him out into the hallway, a hand reaching out to touch her arm and usher her along. It does not escape anyone’s eye—not even the Archbishop’s—that she jerks angrily away from the contact. Byleth pushes her way out ahead of him as she lets the door close back in Yuri’s face.

  
  
  


* * *

The students join the Ashen Wolves in their classroom, migrating there slowly after Yuri and Byleth leave to sort things out with the Church. Felix has a bad feeling about this—and he’s said as much. The mood has definitely shifted since he called out the crimes they’ve committed and the rules they’ve all broken for the Ashen Wolves, though he doesn’t regret it. It is the truth—no need to sugar coat it.

He’s not like Mercedes who gives people bad news while holding their hand and petting their hair, nor is he like Annette who will sing about her worries to wish them away. He also isn’t like Ingrid, who would rather deny the reality of the situation so that she doesn’t have to face the harsh cruelty of this world. Felix sees things for what they are, then he faces them—nose to nose.

And this situation they all find themselves in is not something they can run from.

Felix sits alone in the corner of the Ashen Wolves classroom, perched atop a desk with his boots flat against the chair seat. A mountain of abandoned desks are piled up behind him, covered in dust and cobwebs. Claude is sitting and restringing his bow while Hapi and the boar look to be in the middle of a conversation. He’s not sure how the two can hear each other talk with how loud Balthus and Constance are arguing with each other. Hilda isn’t much better, her only contribution to the debate being whining and pouting and generally being a waste of space.

He presses his forehead into the heel of his palm, trying his damnedest to tune out the bombastic, echoing voice of Balthus and the shrill shrieks of Constance. The effort is not enough to spare him from a splitting headache.

“The Professor has been gone quite a long time now, don’t you think?”

Felix lifts his head to see Hubert standing beside him, hands clasped behind his back as he surveys the classroom and the animated argument playing out before them. He grunts a response back to Hubert. It’s not like he has _words_ for him. He would be much happier if Hubert would just piss off and leave him alone.

“What are those two arguing about, anyway?” Hubert asks, ignoring that Felix did not answer his previous question.

“About what we should do with the Chalice, I think,” Felix grumbles. “I stopped listening a while ago.”

Hubert hums, rocking back on his heels, before turning to face Felix fully. Getting a good look at him up close, Felix realises just how worn down the mage is. Everyone knows Hubert to be tall and gangly looking, but his face looks too thin in this light and lacks any semblance of healthy color. _For as much coffee as this man drinks, he looks fucking exhausted,_ Felix thinks to himself.

Part of him wonders if getting banged up in all of these skirmishes recently has contributed to his gaunt appearance. _There’s no way this man has allowed himself to heal from anything when he’s getting tossed around like a rag doll every night._ Though Felix thinks it's pathetic, mostly because he hates Hubert’s guts, he can acknowledge the man’s tenacity, albeit begrudgingly.

“Well, I think the Chalice should not be handed over freely—even if it is in exchange for a hostage,” Hubert adds. “Cardinal or not, we must not underestimate our foes. Especially considering they likely belong to the same group as those who kidnapped Flayn and Annette not long ago.”

His remarks capture Felix’s full attention as he gives Hubert the most scrutinizing look he can muster. The swordsman blinks at him a few times, replaying his words in his head to make sure that he heard him correctly the first time—that he _doesn’t_ want his _own allies_ to obtain the Chalice that they want so badly?

“What’s the matter, Fraldarius? Cat got your tongue?”

Felix glares at Hubert. _This man has to be doing this intentionally,_ he thinks to himself. _He has to know that I don’t trust him as far as my eyes can see. That’s why he’s instigating me, right?_ He inwardly wishes that Byleth would hurry the fuck up and get back here before he messes up yet again.

“Nothing is the matter,” Felix snaps, folding his arms. “Just surprised that I agree with you, of _all people._ That’s all.”

“Well, color me just as surprised as you,” Hubert says, his expression softening just the slightest in what looks to Felix like genuine astonishment. “In fact, dare I say I am even relieved—”

“You two are on speaking terms now?” Claude interjects with a mischievous grin on his face. Felix and Hubert both scowl at him, but that only causes the Golden Deer leader to laugh. “Ah, so you are, but you’re both not happy about it. Figures. Well, out with it—tell me what you two are plotting.”

Hubert and Felix look at each other for a moment, willing each other to be the one to speak first. The swordsman hates to admit it, but Claude is right about one thing—he loathes the fact that he agrees with Hubert on any matter. But that doesn’t make him any less suspicious of Hubert. Afterall, he knows his true nature. A killer, a co-conspirator with the Flame Emperor, and by extension the Death Knight and the dark mages who lurk around the monastery and more recently in Abyss.

But that begs the question… what would Hubert have to gain from opposing his true allies? When Byleth had first told him about Edelgard and Hubert's intentions and plots against the Church, he scrutinized all of their actions through that lens. For a time, it was easy to see them for what they were—manipulative, cold, and ruthless. And while the image was crystal clear for him when Edelgard refused to work with the boar before the incident in the Holy Mausoleum, and when she and Hubert wandered down into Abyss after them… and especially when that man handed Edelgard the Flame Emperor’s helmet and robes…

There were other times where Felix peered through that same lens, and the image was blurry and indistinguishable. Like all of the times where Hubert relished in the excitement of killing his own allies, even risking his own life by challenging the Death Knight. Felix always wrote it off as him trying to “fit in” with the students around him, so as to not draw suspicion. But sometimes he wonders if Hubert really is just that unhinged, finding a sick satisfaction in violence and murder, regardless of if its betrayal.

And then there are moments like this one—where Hubert confides in Byleth and him both on separate occasions to tell them that he opposes his own allies seeking this Chalice and meddling in Abyss. Of course, Hubert is no idiot. He must know that convincing others of his innocence will preserve his cover until Edelgard steals the crown and throws the continent into war. His defiance is just calculated manipulation of both Felix and Byleth—and now all of the Ashen Wolves and the students involved in this shit show as well. They’ll all keep believing the lie because he killed a dozen or more dark mages and told a few people that he doesn’t want the Death Knight and his friends to walk away with the stupid Chalice.

“Fraldarius and I were discussing the ransom note,” Hubert tells Claude. “We both came to the same conclusion, despite our differences. Apparently, even our ineffectual swordsman here agrees that handing over the Chalice to our enemies would be unwise.”

Felix scowls, tightening his hands over his kneecaps. “You could have just said we agreed, you asshole.”

“I have to say I agree with you, too, Hubert. Unfortunately, I don’t think everyone shares our sentiment,” Claude nods back behind him at Balthus who is still animatedly arguing with Constance. Hilda half-heartedly looks to be taking his side. “And who knows what Teach is going to say our orders are once she gets back.”

 _Right,_ Felix thinks to himself. _We don’t know what shit we’ll have to deal with from the Church._ He has reason to believe that Byleth went to Seteth about this fiasco, but with Yuri in tow, he doubts that would go over as she might have planned. With the luck they’ve been having lately, the Church will likely take over the reins while the Ashen Wolves and students are expelled or _worse._

“Then we make a plan,” Felix states simply. “Just like we do in our tactics seminar. How do we get back Aelfric without handing over the Chalice? If we have a sound plan of attack—”

“No one, not even the Church could refuse it,” Claude interrupts, completing Felix’s sentence for him. “I’m sure they’d prefer to keep their treasure if at all possible. It is a holy relic we’re talking about.” The swordsman grumbles at the rude interruption, but nods his head in agreement. Hubert, on the other hand, doesn’t seem nearly as enthusiastic about working together on such a thing.

“I’m glad you both are so optimistic about this, but none of us know what value Aelfric has to the Church of Seiros,” he doubts. “Aelfric’s knowledge of the Church might outweigh the benefit of keeping the Chalice, in which they would gladly order it to be exchanged for their cardinal.”

Claude hums, raising his green gaze to meet Hubert’s pensive expression. “Or, following your same logic, if the Wolves are right that the Church wishes to get rid of Abyss… maybe they’d find Aelfric’s kidnapping all too convenient of a way to get rid of him.”

“Exactly,” Hubert nods, rubbing the side of his jaw with a gloved hand. “Either way, we’ll find out soon enough how expendable the Church deems Aelfric to be. And us, for that matter.”

Felix slides off the desk, startling both Hubert and Claude when his boots strike the damp stone floor. He pushes between them and over to the old chalkboard at the front of the classroom. The slate is cracked, there’s only a few nubs left of chalk, and they don’t even have a proper eraser—but it will do. He drags it across the floor over to where he was sitting, where Hubert and Claude both watch him struggle with the heavy chalkboard.

_I can’t believe Byleth would even entertain these fools. They don’t even have the decency—_

“Felix, let me help you,” Dimitri chimes in, quickly stepping in to the other side of the chalkboard, lifting his end up off the ground with ease. Felix huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Fine, boar. You can make yourself useful and help us, anyway,” he obliges as they set the old, broken chalkboard down in front of Claude and Hubert. Felix grabs one of the nubs of chalk and thrusts it into the dark mage’s boney hands.

“You’ve been to the old chapel, right?” he asks Hubert pointedly, to which he nods. “Good, now draw us a map.”

Claude, Dimitri, and Felix stand and watch as Hubert crudely draws a map of the field and the abandoned chapel on the fringe of the village below Garreg Mach. Since the number of enemies that will be bringing Aelfric to the chapel is unknown, they devise tactics that utilize negotiation, careful positioning, and magic for means of deception. Claude’s underhanded strategies usually bother Felix, but today he is glad for them. Hubert suggests various magical solutions that can be employed to disarm their opponent if need be, and even the boar offers his expertise on how to best split up their numbers in case a physical skirmish breaks out.

Stepping back from the chalkboard, Felix regards the strategy they’ve produced, and he believes it to be sound. With a sigh, he finally feels his anxiety has lessened, even if just for the time being. That is, until the others finally stop arguing with each other and join them around the chalkboard.

“No can do, boys,” Balthus argues, shaking his head. “Weren’t you listenin’ to anything I was telling Constance? They will _kill_ Aelfric if we don’t hand over the Chalice. You read the letter just the same as we did.”

“Aelfric would not wish the Chalice to fall into our enemy’s hands!” Constance bickers, folding her arms across her chest. She stands resolutely beside Hubert, signifying her position on the matter of debate.

Hapi, on the other hand, contends against them along with Hilda, who flank either side of Balthus. “You’re wrong, Coco. Aelfy would want what is best for Abyss. Don’t you remember everything he’s done for us?”

“Sorry, mind if I cut in?

Everyone turns to face Linhardt who stands in the doorway to the Ashen Wolves’ classroom. For a moment there, Felix had forgotten about the green-haired mage. Linhardt going off and doing his own thing isn’t out of the ordinary—but the reaction he gave when Felix announced that he, Byleth, and some others stole a Relic… well, suffice to say wordlessly storming off was not quite normal for the mage.

Felix gets that Linhardt is upset—hells, _he_ is upset, too. But Felix doesn’t claim to know the damnedest thing about Relics, lost crests, Zanado, weird blue-looking crest stones, or any magic outside of what little Lysithea has taught him. That is _why_ Linhardt is so important—he can make sense of all these things that Felix can’t grasp, and is certainly more trustworthy than Hubert or even Claude. Not only for getting them all out of this mess in Abyss, but for _everything._

He’s already been roped into things by Byleth and Lysithea, anyway; the latter was inadvertently Felix’s own doing. If Linhardt were to wash his hands of everything now… it would be a critical loss for Byleth and her mission.

“What is it, kid?” Balthus grumbles. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

Linhardt dares to push past the grappler’s tall frame, an expression of annoyance written all over his face. “I can see that, but I just found something. Something important,” he explains curtly. "Specifically, the names of the Apostles.”

He reaches into his leather book bag and retrieves a large, dusty tome and flips through to a particular page. He lays the book out on the desk that Felix was sitting on a little while earlier, and everyone gathers around with hushed whispers as Linhardt continues to pull pieces of parchment from his bag. There’s charcoal rubbings of four symbols, coinciding with the imagery on the pages of the open book.

“Aubin, Chevalier,” his slender pale finger points emphatically at the parchment on the desk, at an anchor-like symbol and one that resembles the sun, respectively. “Noa, and Timotheos,” he continues, tapping the other two symbols pictured in messy charcoal. “The Four Apostles whose bloodlines were lost to time. I figured the Ashen Wolves might have thoughts about all of that.”

Any whispers amongst them cease immediately as Linhardt lets his words settle, his eyebrow quirking up at Hapi, Constance, and Balthus. The blonde looks like she wants to shrink and hide, and Balthus can’t hold eye contact. Hapi just looks confused.

Linhardt drums his fingers impatiently on the desk, clearly irritated and inpatient. “Well?” he prods.

Balthus actually reaches out and grabs Constance’s forearm, his massive hand wrapping around it and holding her in place. She gives him a pleading look. “No use hiding it now, Constance,” he clears his throat, shaking his head at her. “As for me, I’ve got the Major Crest of Chevalier. When I enrolled at the academy years ago, the Church ordered me to keep that tidbit to myself. So I did.”

“And for me,” Constance whispers, all of her usual brass melting away, “the blood of Saint Noa courses through my veins. This is kept hidden, even from the Empire.” She raises her gaze to look directly at Hubert, who looks just as aghast as she does.

“I thought you had the Crest of Macuil…” Hubert trails off.

Constance shakes her head, looking remorseful at her admission. “I do not. Hubert, I am truly sorry for having deceived you.”

Felix’s mind reels as he tries to process everything. _Chevalier… Noa..._

“Aubin,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. “Yuri said he has Aubin’s crest.” Constance nods in agreement, having witnessed that alongside Felix when they were north of Castle Gerth.

_Then that just leaves…_

“I do have a vague recollection of being told my Crest is rare,” Hapi chimes in, resting her cheek on her fist as she muses aloud. “Which probably means mine's from Timotheos. I never understood why my village was hidden away from the rest of the world. But now I finally get it.”

A silence falls over the group, so thick that Felix thinks he could cut it with his sword. Constance shifts her weight uncomfortably, clutching her fan to her chest; Linhardt appears just as shocked as the rest of them, likely because this hunch of his was right on the bullion. Hubert though, is dreadfully pale and sullen. Felix can practically see the storm cloud hanging over his head.

“So the four Crests, which were presumed lost, have all been gathered into the same house…” he trails off, breaking the quietude.

Claude nods, albeit with a frown on his face. “All thanks to our buddy Aelfric, it would seem.”

“Yet Aelfric has been abducted. Why could that be? If it was the Chalice they were after, they could have stolen it from us directly without the need for anything sly,” Dimitri speaks up. “I don’t understand.”

“Maybe someone had it out for him? Or maybe he messed around with the wrong people?” Balthus suggests.

As more chatter and speculation breaks out amongst the group again, Felix feels a fist bump into his arm. It’s icy, bony, and belongs to Hubert, who is peering down at him with an expression of alarm. “You remember what we stumbled upon underground last moon, yes?” the raven-haired mage asks, his voice low for only Felix to hear.

“Unfortunately,” Felix replies through gritted teeth. _The kidnappings, the Death Knight, the experiments, the fucking Flame Emperor…_ How could he forget? Never mind the audacity Hubert has to ask him such a thing as if he wasn’t involved with those dastards.

“Now we have four extremely rare crests gathered together… facing the same foes that wanted Flayn and Annette’s crested blood for whatever _vile_ purposes,” Hubert hisses to him. He looks down at him out of the corner of his eye while pretending to concern himself with the discussion of the larger group.

Felix’s not as quick on the uptake as Hubert, but after a moment he realizes his implications. His amber eyes widen, and his gut is telling him that all of this is very, very wrong. “They kidnapped Aelfric… so that his four students would chase after him. This is a trap?”

Hubert nods stiffly, averting his eyes to their carefully drawn strategy on the whiteboard. “It’d be best to assume as such. We may need to make.... adjustments. That is, if our friends here abide.”

  
  


* * *

Byleth turns on her heel once she hears Seteth’s office door shut a second time. She doesn’t hit Yuri, though she would like to; instead, she levels with him face to face to give him a piece of her mind.

"You told me you wouldn't notify her," Byleth yells at him, likely loud enough for Lady Rhea to hear just beyond the wooden door. Her voice is gravelly with emotion and flush with anger, and it causes some of the monks walking down the corridors to stop and stare. She thinks she can see Professor Hanneman poke his head out of his office down the hall before shutting the door. "You promised me, Yuri."

For once, she is grateful her father is not in his office. His door remains open, as it often is, but it is unoccupied as her father is out on patrols this afternoon and evening. Thankfully, he's not here to listen to her completely lose her temper.

"Yuri should _also_ be thankful," Sothis adds playfully, chuckling at Byleth’s outburst. "Because your father would probably have a lesson or two to teach him."

Byleth's irritation flares at Sothis' interjection—now is not the time or place for the goddess' commentary. It would have been useful earlier this afternoon—hells, _anytime_ during the last few days would have been better than now when everything is crumbling around her. _Your humor isn't helpful,_ Byleth thinks back to her.

"Rhea was going to find out anyway, no matter what either of us did," Yuri shrugs, his lips twitching as he frowns down at her. She can't tell if he's trying to be condescending—just like she can't quite tell if he is trying to hold himself back from smirking.

"I told you multiple times that you shouldn't trust him," Sothis adds, her small foot tapping on the stone floor for only Byleth to hear. "But you never listen to—"

 _"Not right now,"_ Byleth orders, interrupting the goddess that shrinks away from her side. Sothis is quiet immediately after that, but only when Byleth sees the puzzled look on Yuri’s face does she realize that she didn't think those words… She said them aloud.

"Huh? Not _what_ right now?" he asks slowly.

 _Shit._ Byleth’s ears begin to burn with embarrassment, and she pivots to hide her face from his. _So much for being taken seriously,_ she laments. _Now I'm just talking to ghosts._

"Forget it," Byleth mutters. She takes a seat on the floor, her back resting against the wall beside her father’s office door. She doesn't even raise her gaze to look at him. She can't. "I don't know why I trusted you."

Yuri hums, but doesn't respond. He lingers outside the door to Seteth’s office, probably to see if he could pick up on any conversation being had. Sothis remains in the hallway with them, though she turns a cold shoulder to Byleth—refusing to be anywhere near her. _Hey… I’m sorry,_ she thinks. The goddess doesn’t even spare her a passing glance. _I didn’t mean any of that,_ Byleth tries again. Again, she is met with silence.

_I probably deserve this, don’t I?_

After several minutes that seem to last an eternity, Yuri abandons trying to eavesdrop. His usual confidence has waned, likely disappointed that he could not glean any information from beyond the door. Surprisingly, he paces over to Byleth and slides his back down the wall until he’s seated beside her. Yuri rests his forearms on his knees and picks at the dirt under his fingernails.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Yuri snorts, shaking his head. “What if I lie to you again?” he retorts.

“If you do, I’ll just ask Seteth later,” Byleth tells him. She looks over at him, at his grimace that masquerades as a grin. “Why were you expelled?”

The expression on his face falters for a moment as Byleth watches him process the question before he crafts a response. Usually he’s so quick on the draw, always having a comeback ready, so she takes the rare opportunity to study his moment of speechlessness. She tries to unravel more about his character by studying the depth and darkening of his eyes beneath the shimmer that has mostly been worn away from sweat and battle.

“Ah,” he says at last, his voice lacking its usual enthusiasm. In fact, he sounds downright _defeated._ He sucks in a deep breath and tilts his head back against the stone wall of the corridor, staring up at the arched ceiling. “Felix told you about that, I suppose. He really does hate me, doesn’t he?”

Byleth shakes her head, though she doesn’t think that Yuri has looked at her to notice.

“No, I did not hear it from him,” she explains softly. She thinks for a long moment about his words; considering how the topic of Yuri goes over with Felix, she really can’t disagree with that statement. It’s as plain as day that Felix hates Yuri, but it seems like the feeling is not mutual. Byleth decides to press further, her curiosity getting the better of her. “But why do you think he hates you?”

“Hey, only one question at a time,” Yuri quips. He finally tilts his chin down to look over at her, and he flashes her a playful smile… though Byleth can tell it is forced.

“I was enrolled here at the Officer’s Academy two years ago. Back then, I was living the life of nobility in the Western Kingdom as the adopted son of Count Rowe. He found me on the streets four years before that and took me in,” Yuri recounts. “Gave me a place to sleep, food to eat, even an allowance of gold that I just sent back to my mother instead.”

“But more importantly, he gave me a title. And an education at the famed Officer’s Academy right here,” he says, motioning to the space around him. “As you know well by now, attending the Academy means you’re free labor for the Church. So there came a point when the Church ordered me to wipe out some members from my old gang. Told me it was part of some _important mission.”_

“Your old gang?” Byleth asks.

“Just your run-of-the-mill thieves to a mercenary like you, Byleth. Anyway, they were like family to me, so naturally I protested my orders. Things got pretty heated, and the rest is history,” Yuri says, folding his hands atop his knees. “I lost everything Count Rowe gave me. If it wasn’t for Aelfric stepping in and imploring them to spare me… well, I would not be sitting here today. I’d be just another petty criminal that Rhea orders to the death each year.”

Byleth shivers at his last statement, recalling Lady Rhea’s orders to have the dark mages who kidnapped Flayn executed without proper questioning. Also how Aelfric and Seteth stood up against the Archbishop’s orders, practically begging for the opportunity to investigate more into the conspiracy of the dark mages. The number of those who are suspicious of Rhea are only growing the more Byleth peels back the curtain in this life—even Yuri, someone who is obviously morally dubious, takes issue with the Archbishop’s idea of justice. Does the Church of Seiros believe that justice is at the end of a sword? Or just Lady Rhea?

  
  


_“The leaders of the Church of Seiros have misused its creed to fulfill their true desire—to rule the world,” Edelgard’s voice echoes out over the crowd of red sallets and citizens alike, all gathered at the foot of the palace steps, flooding the city square and streets. “They caused instability in order to reinforce their own authority.”_

_“I pray the students learned a valuable lesson about the fate that awaits all who are foolish enough to point their blades towards the heavens.”_

  
  


Byleth feels woozy from the sudden flood of memories—from this life and her last. She presses the sweaty palms of her hands flush against the cool stone tile of the floor beneath her, to ground her and try to stop the world from spinning. She cannot afford to faint again now.

“Why tell Rhea then?” she asks blearily, trying to speak through the sickness rolling through her.

“Because all aid for the people of Abyss depends on maintaining good relations with her,” Yuri explains before his voice takes on a darker tone. “Well, as good as they _can_ be, given I once murdered her knights.”

His words fill the lonely hallway with a desolate ambience, causing even Sothis looks over her shoulder at them. 

“Is that why you think Felix hates you?” Byleth asks finally, her voice small as she turns her head to face Yuri fully.

Yuri smiles, _mostly to himself,_ she thinks. But it’s that broken smile of his that trembles on the precipice of mischief and despair. “No,” he laughs. “It’s hardly just that.”

“Then why is it?”

Yuri opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the creak of Seteth opening his office door. He stands half in the doorway, Alois and Lady Rhea peering out into the hallway from behind him. What is left of the evening sun filters through the stained glass windows of his office, illuminating his green hair and bleak expression with soft light as he summons Yuri and Byleth to join them again.

  
  
  


* * *

_“That_ is your plan?” Hubert challenges. “Professor, certainly you cannot be so foolish as to hand over the Chalice right to our enemies.”

Byleth opens her mouth to respond, but Yuri speaks over her as he flips his lavender hair out of his eyes.

“Listen, it’s the best course of action to ensure Aelfric’s safety. Rhea agreed to entrust the mission to Byleth and me, and the Knights of Serios won’t be involved. We just need to head down there tomorrow night and bring back Aelfric in one piece,” he explains.

Hubert refrains from rolling his eyes at Yuri as he takes a challenging step forward. “From what I understood, the Archbishop entrusted the mission to _all of us._ We have been helping you from the beginning, Yuri. It wouldn’t be wise of you to forget that,” he warns, his voice dripping with venom. “Besides, I thought you said you’d be going to someone _other_ than the Archbishop on this matter?”

He doesn’t miss Byleth’s reaction—it’s minute, but he catches the shift in her expression as her lips purse together in a thin line and her jaw tightens, eyes narrowing at Yuri. _Ah, it looks like Mr. Leclerc failed to keep his word,_ Hubert thinks to himself. He smirks, ready to strike with another dig at the leader of the Ashen Wolves.

“Or was that simply a white lie you told us? Just like when you told Constance you’d help her find the Relic, only so _you_ could take it for yourself. Everything is just a charade to play until you get what you want—”

“I needed the Relic to help protect the people of Abyss,” Yuri snaps, each of his words clipped. “All that I am—all that I do is to that end. There is nothing I will not do to get Aelfric back here… even if means giving them that stupid Chalice.”

Hubert scoffs. He already revealed a few cards of his hand to Felix—one of the _last_ people he would elect to do so under normal circumstances. But the situation had escalated from bad to worse when Linhardt uncovered the identities of the Four Apostles, and how their bloodlines are all represented in the Ashen Wolves. That, coupled with a Chalice that can resurrect the dead according to legend? Hells, there is nothing that _Hubert_ will not do to make sure that Chalice does not end up in Chilon’s hands.

And yet, the Professor and this arrogant _fool_ Yuri stand before him, committed to throwing the Chalice to those who slither in the dark like throwing a bone to a stray dog.

But revealing his entire hand to everyone here is _inconceivable._ It would spell disaster for Her Highness and all she has worked toward, all she has suffered for. Yet simultaneously, the Chalice, the crested blood of the Four Apostles, and quite probably one of the few individuals who may know anything of the Chalice’s true magical capabilities—Aelfric—may all be in the hands of Chilon as soon as tomorrow evening. Hubert shudders at the thought.

“Professor, I still strongly oppose this plan. It is not safe to hand over the Chalice so willingly, and I am not the only one who shares this sentiment,” he says directly to Byleth, not even bothering to make eye contact with Yuri. “Please, I implore you to reconsider—”

This strikes Yuri’s last nerve, though. None of them have witnessed the leader of the Ashen Wolves particularly angry during their time working together. He’s always aloof and irritatingly carefree and egotistical, so the temper that he reveals is quite the polarizing switch from what they have come to expect of him.

“We should reconsider _your_ interests here, Hubert,” he jabs back, all teeth and malice. Yuri’s voice is commandeering and threatening all in the same, his volume reverberating off the stone walls of the underground classroom. “You know, ever since you got here in Abyss, you’ve done _nothing_ but shit on us. We’re just monsters and criminals to you, right? You’ve mocked me and my men at every opportunity. I’m sure it would also benefit you and your liege to see us crumble.”

The heels of Yuri’s boots syncopate his words as he moves into Hubert’s face, canines bared as his upper lip twitches in anger, eyes burning with rage. His face is so close that Hubert can see the purple pigment on his eyelids is smudged, flakes of shimmer having fallen to the tops of his cheeks. Fortunately, perhaps, Hubert has dealt with angrier noblemen and the downright _vicious_ those that slither in the dark—therefore Yuri’s little outburst does little to upset or intimidate him.

“My liege,” Hubert replies coolly, staring down the lavender-haired man before him, “sent me here with explicit orders to aid those who seek refuge in Abyss.”

“And where is your liege now?” Yuri spits back. “I’ll believe you when I see her down here fighting alongside us. Her support means _nothing_ when she’s not down here spilling her blood for this cause like we have been—”

Hubert’s restraint snaps in that moment. He grabs Yuri by the fabric of his jacket and jerks him forward, making him bite his tongue on the filthy garbage spewing out of his mouth. Everyone gasps around him, and Hubert can even hear the Professor and Constance beg him to stop. But he won’t stop, not until he has the last word. Not until Yuri shuts his mouth and looks at him with the same fear and trepidation as the others do.

“You would be _nothing_ if it wasn’t for some noble taking you in out of pity,” Hubert hisses, hoisting Yuri up until the toes of his boots barely make contact with the ground. The smaller man squirms, his hands coming up to desperately paw at Hubert’s wrists. “You should know that Her Highness has spent time as a refugee in the very same Kingdom that you once called home. It’s best you not forget that before you spew such slanderous lies, Yuri Leclerc.”

Suddenly, Constance’s hands are on Hubert’s arms as he urges him once more to release his hold on Yuri. Hubert grumbles but obliges, having made his point. Yuri straightens his uniform, shaking the fringe of hair out of his eyes.

“Enough of this brutish behavior! Can both of you act civilized for just one moment?” Constance lambasts them both.

“I am disappointed in you,” she frowns at Hubert, and he feels a sliver of regret in making her feel at all uncomfortable. He bows his head, and she turns her attention to Yuri next. “And dear Yuri, I know of your sacrifices for all of us in Abyss, but I must admit that I agree with Hubert. The Chalice must be—”

“Are you fucking joking, Constance? After _everything?”_ Yuri replies, his voice still teetering on the edge of a shout. He runs his hands through his hair. The voices of Balthus, Hilda, and Hapi enter the mix, siding with Yuri and resuming their argument from earlier. As the verbal sparring continues, Hubert scans the room to see the Professor staring off into the corner of the classroom. It is odd, almost as if she is completely disinterested in the grave situation that they find themselves in.

But then, as if right on cue, the raven-haired swordsman steps forward to stand beside Hubert and Constance. Hubert must have played his cards right earlier this afternoon in buying Felix’s trust, even if just for this short time. His amber eyes are intense and look right past Yuri to the Professor as he addresses only her.

“Professor Byleth, I also think that we should hang onto the Chalice,” Felix states simply, speaking over everyone else. The Professor’s eyes appear to come back to life after hearing him speak, her head tilting to the side as if to inquire why.

“Me too, Teach. Actually, Felix and I worked with Hubert and His Highness to come up with a different tactical solution to our little hostage problem,” Claude interjects. And for once, Hubert is thankful for it. He is acutely aware that he is not close with the Professor like Fraldarius or Riegan is, and he doesn’t have any semblance of fondness toward her like the Prince does. _She would never trust my word alone,_ he thinks. _But theirs could very well make the difference here._

Byleth hears out their entire plan, her indigo eyes scanning the chalkboard as she listens to Claude and Felix’s proposal—handing over a fake Chalice, then using Hapi’s unusual and terrifying gift of summoning monsters to serve as a distraction—enough to send in someone on wyvern to quickly warp Aelfric back to the monastery safely. Hubert pales when his name is thrown out as a suggestion for that last bit, given that he knows how to warp.

“Might I recommend Constance for that role instead… I don’t do well with flying,” he insists.

“But it would be best if you or I go, Hubert. Bringing any of the Ashen Wolves too close into the fold might be risky, depending on our enemies’ intentions for the Chalice,” Linhardt chimes in, finally breaking a rare bout of silence from the green-haired mage.

Hubert stills at the implication, thinking for a moment that Linhardt might have overheard his earlier conversation with Felix. He hopes that Linhardt's research gives merit to Hubert’s fears, and not the other way around.

“Listen, Lady Rhea told us that the Chalice was useless without the Four Apostles,” Yuri interrupts. “All this fear about a stupid cup is unwarranted—”

“You know, it’s funny that you bring that up,” Linhardt speaks over him with snarky indifference. “To fill you in on what you both missed while you were gone—I found the names of the Four Apostles. Aubin, Noa, Chevalier, and Timotheos. It turns out that the four Ashen Wolves each bear their crests, despite them thought to be lost to history.”

“That might be news to you, Professor. Though I suspect that for _you,_ Yuri—you likely knew that Aubin was an Apostle given you bear his crest. Anyway, I’ve been thinking hard about this while you all have been arguing, and I remember that Aelfric did tell us that the Four Apostles used the Chalice to perform the Rite of Rising. So, I do think it is not only fair, but wise for us to hypothesize that the Chalice could be used with the blood of the Apostles’ descendents,” he explains, motioning to the Ashen Wolves.

Hubert’s heart is pounding in his chest and ears as Felix and Claude agree with Linhardt’s assessment. _What if our assumptions are correct? That they wish to harness the Chalice’s true potential—resurrecting the dead or otherwise. What could Chilon possibly want to use the Chalice for?_

He looks down at Constance, who stands next to him on his left. In his mind’s eye, he pictures her in Lady Edelgard’s shoes, trapped in some dungeon wasting away but kept alive just barely… poked and prodded and cut open and sewn back together over and over again. He thinks of Gelfrid left a monster and the nightmares he’s had for years imagining dead and rotting Hresvelgs. He hears Thales refer to his deceased friends as failed experiments, the words ringing in his ears and rattling him to the core. _Does the Chalice mean there will no longer be any failed experiments?_

His blood turns to ice at the thought. _Never again,_ he vowed once and will vow forever more. _Never again can we allow such atrocities to take place, for as long as I have a breath in my body._

“You're jumping at shadows, Linhardt. Anyway, we don't have _time_ for this,” Yuri glosses over the growing speculation and tensions in the classroom. “We need a plan for the chapel ruins tomorrow night. So, Professor, what will it be?”

Byleth looks pensive, opting to bore holes into the floor instead of look at any of their waiting faces. “I need time to consider everything you have brought forward,” she says, her voice unusually stern. “Let’s reconvene here tomorrow at noon.”

Everyone hesitates a moment before gathering their belongings and leaving the Ashen Wolves classroom—stunned, perhaps. The Professor is usually decisive, so to see her uncertain like this adds to the shared discomfort at their circumstances. Balthus looks like he’s going to punch a table or flip a desk, but Hilda grabs on to him and whines for them to grab dinner at the inn before he can act rashly. Hapi leaves alone; Linhardt, too—it appears the two of them are no longer chatty with each other. Claude is goading Felix into heading to the dining hall with him, but he fails to notice that the swordsman is waiting for a chance to speak with the Professor.

Hubert picks up on this—it’s common for Fraldarius to hang behind for a few words with Professor Byleth. Except this time, Dimitri is also doing the same. Much to their ire, he imagines, Claude ends up dragging both of them out of the classroom after Yuri captures her attention instead. And as much as Hubert would love to stay and eavesdrop on Yuri’s private conversation with her, Constance is ushering him out of the room with the promise of another cup of coffee or two.

He obliges. He’ll need the small comfort as he and the rest of them wait anxiously for tomorrow evening.

  
  
  


* * *

Felix can barely get through dinner between the lurching of his stomach and having to look at the boar and Claude make awkward small talk about the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, which was only a short four days away now. The bell tolls five times, and the sun is already far dipped beyond the horizon. Outside the dining hall walls, he catches a glimpse of Sylvain and Mercedes happily chatting as they walk back to the dorms, and sees Annette and Ashe following Dedue into the dining hall to get one of the last few servings of onion gratin soup.

It’s the same dish Felix keeps pushing around with his spoon, his mounting anxiety stealing away any appetite he had left. Dimitri and Claude finish up their bowls, and both of them rise and say their goodbyes to him as they return their dishes and silverware to the cooks.

Annette giggles across the dining hall as Ashe recounts a tale from his stable duty earlier that day. Dedue smiles at them quietly as he enjoys his meal. Some of the other students are here, finishing up their meal before an evening of studying or the Cathedral’s evening services. All of them blissfully unaware that one of the Church’s cardinals has been kidnapped and held for ransom—ignorant to the fact that an entire city of Fódlan’s unwanted and unloved lives below their feet.

Eventually, Felix abandons trying to finish his meal and brings his bowl back to the cooks. He mumbles that he isn’t feeling well—not because he was asked for a reason why his food was picked-at and uneaten, but because he figured he needed to explain himself. Upon entering his room, he unbuckles his sword belt and props his weapon in the corner with his others. Felix kicks off his boots and pulls his tailored black vest over his head, the brass buttons pattering on the hardwood as he allows the clothing to fall to the floor.

He curls into himself on his mattress, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to stop his mind from racing and his chest from tightening as he works through a dozen different scenarios that may happen tomorrow in his head. The last time he was this nervous was when he had a piano recital the following day. While his father is a man of country, of sword and steel through and through… his mother is very much an idealist that would fit in far better in Leicester or the Empire than the cold and unforgiving Kingdom. She believed swordsmanship and diplomacy weren’t the only skills suited for her sons, so she forced Felix and his brother to be tutored in many disciplines whilst growing up in Castle Fraldarius.

They both studied dance, natural sciences, and poetry and literature. Glenn was able to find some enjoyment in his art studies, as he was actually not bad at painting. Felix, on the other hand, was stuck taking piano lessons from a former opera pianist. And he was _awful_ at it—absolutely dreadful. His lack of practicing in between lessons did him no favors, so when the time came for performances before his instructor and his family—he was wildly unprepared, plunking the keys with no rhythm or sense of melody.

Tonight feels very much like one of the nights before one of his piano recitals. His nerves alight with fear of failure, fear of the unknown.

A pattering at the glass of his window causes his eyes to snap open. _Is it raining?_ Felix pushes himself up on his mattress and squints through the darkness in his room and outside his window. The noise ceases, so Felix rules out a storm or rainfall. Must have been an owl or a squirrel, he thinks to himself.

He lays his head back down on his pillow, and just as he closes his eyes… another tap at his window startles him. This time, he reaches over the edge of his bed and grabs the dagger he has hidden underneath his mattress. He swings his legs off his bed and as soon as his stocking feet meet the hardwood—

“Hey, _hey!_ Easy with that thing,” a voice tells him, a gloved hand curling around his right wrist—immobilizing his dagger. Felix struggles against the intruder anyway, standing and trying to wrestle himself out of the grip of whoever this dastard is.

“Who the _fuck_ do you think—”

“Felix, it’s _me,”_ the voice says again. The gloved hand yanks Felix and his dagger away from him, giving the swordsman enough time to peer through the darkness at the intruder. The sliver of moonlight reflects against lavender hair before the moon slips away back behind the autumn clouds. “You’re not a very good host,” the man laughs at him.

“What—” Felix finally pulls free of Yuri’s grasp, flashing his dagger as a warning before him. “How the fuck did you get in here?”

Yuri gestures behind him with his thumb. “The window. I thought you heard?” he deadpans. “Say, where do you have a candle in this goddess-forsaken place… Ah! Here we go.” With a snap of his fingers, the melted stub of a candle atop Felix’s desk lights up, casting his room in a warm glow.

“You could have just knocked on the door like a normal fucking person,” Felix chastises him, lowering his dagger. He would slip it back under his mattress, but the anxious part of him bids him to hold fast to it just in case Yuri isn’t here just to annoy him.

“You and I both know that you wouldn’t let me in,” Yuri laughs, taking a seat on the edge of the cabinets under his window. “And I needed to make sure I had the chance to talk to you tonight.”

Felix scoffs, folding his arms. “And what about? What was so important that you needed to break into my room—”

“I asked Byleth Eisner on a date.”

“You… you what?”

Yuri rolls his eyes as he crosses one leg over the other. “I know you heard me, Felix. Don’t play dumb. I asked Miss Byleth on a date,” he repeats himself matter-of-factly as he examines his fingernails with mock interest. “I told her that we have a real connection, that I loved her and all that jazz… blah, blah, blah, you know how it goes. And I asked her to meet me tomorrow evening—”

“You asked Byleth on a _date,”_ Felix parrots back, unable to form any other coherent thought.

“Yes, very good, Felix! You’re finally listening,” Yuri applauds him like the condescending asshole that he tends to be. “Anyway, she turned me down. Such a shame, really.”

The raven-haired swordsman stands blinking at Yuri a moment before scoffing and folding his arms across his chest. “Tch, of course she did. She’s fucking the boar, you know?”

“Of course I know, Felix. I was born yesterday, but I wasn’t born at night.” A grin stretches across Yuri’s face. “Say, you suppose that’s what they’re doing right now?” he whispers slyly, motioning to the shared wall between Felix and Dimitri’s rooms. “That _is_ the Prince’s room, yeah?”

Felix frowns and decides to change the subject before he feels the urge to actually use the dagger still in his hand. “So if this is the only reason you’ve come to _annoy_ me, why couldn’t this have waited until I’m forced to see your face tomorrow?”

“As a matter of fact, no. Not really. I wanted to see your reaction, of course. It is seldom that _I_ am rejected,” Yuri smiles back before his expression shifts into something more serious. “But the real reason I’m here is because I need you to convince our favorite Professor to bring the Chalice to the chapel ruins tomorrow.”

 _He’s really that desperate, huh?_ Felix thinks to himself. But then again, it’s not surprising to him that Yuri won’t just let things go. He always was one to keep grudges and continue to obsess over things that weren’t just as he would have them. It’s all about control with Yuri, and Felix is willing to bet that he got comfortable down in Abyss. He got used to having everyone call him boss, everyone idolizing him and singing his praises—the man feeds off of that shit. He got comfortable because no one ever told him no… there was never a situation where he didn’t get his way. That’s why he threw a tantrum down in the Ashen Wolves classroom today.

And that’s why he’s sitting on the edge of the cabinets in Felix’s room, his eyes dark and pleading with someone who has lost all faith in him. _Desperate times call for desperate measures._

“Why? You heard me down there today—I don’t agree with your plan,” Felix dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, but—”

“Look, I know you don’t trust me. I get that,” Yuri interrupts. His voice is unexpectedly gentle, his eyes even more so. Felix stops talking immediately and just stares at him. A small part of him listens clear and true to his words, hopeful that this is finally the apology that he deserves. That finally his old friend can go back to being his old friend. “And I know I’ll never earn that back, Felix. But Byleth can earn my trust back, and I need her to take my side on this while she is still able to change her mind.”

The flicker of hope in Felix’s chest dies as the other part of him takes over. The part of him that holds people at arm's length, that doesn’t trust easily, and focuses on all of the hurt and pain that people have caused him. _I should have known better than to wish something so foolish out of this man,_ Felix glowers to himself. _He’s always been an actor. Faking remorse to goad me into feeling pity for him… disgusting._

“You need her so you can use all of us for your little scheme again. Just like you did at Castle Gerth,” Felix spits back, his arms dropping to his side. Hands are balled into fists, his dagger still neatly tucked into his right one. Yuri’s eyes flash down to look at the blade for a split second. “Again, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but it can get all of us killed—that includes you, you idiot. You and the Ashen Wolves are probably being baited—”

Yuri sighs loudly, running a hand through his hair. “You’re really going to believe Hubert over Lady Rhea? Come on, Felix.”

“I do,” Felix replies quickly and confidently. “The archbishop knows nothing about combat or hostage situations, and she doesn't know half the shit that we do about who we are up against. You know those dark mages and the Death Knight are horrible fucking people… you saw what they can do back at Castle Gerth. Who knows what awful shit they’ll do with the Chalice?”

Yuri sits very still and surprisingly doesn’t interject again with another refute, so Felix keeps going.

“You’re telling me that you know damn well how dangerous these people are, and you are willing to run yourself and your friends headfirst into them with the Chalice on a platter—”

“I'll do anything to protect those important to me,” Yuri cuts him off. His voice and eyes are serious, somber even. “Surely you know what that’s like.”

It’s Felix’s turn to sit and grapple with the weight of Yuri’s words. He knows Yuri has done much in his past that was either heartbreaking or dastardly—he personally wouldn’t classify the latter group of deeds as being worthy of done in the name of someone you care about. Sure, Felix wouldn’t blink an eye at killing someone to protect an ally or friend—that is acceptable in the name of battle, of survival. He cannot conceive of how rushing headfirst into a dangerous and unpredictable enemy would be considered a heroic deed, especially when it endangers the very people you want to protect. _Well, unless the lot of them_ aren’t _the one he’s protecting,_ Felix wonders to himself.

 _Who is it that he’s protecting, then?_ It can’t be Yuri’s old gang, Felix supposes, since he left them years ago to join noble life as Count Rowe’s adopted son. Perhaps it’s his mother? He’s heard him mention her a few times before. Or a past lover? Seiros knows he has plenty of those.

The more Felix thinks about it all, the more he can’t relate to Yuri’s claim. Sure, Felix has family—his father and mother, an uncle and a handful of cousins. None of which he was ever particularly close with. He had close friends at one time, Yuri and the boar counted among them… Ingrid, too. But they could never be what they once were after that day. Sure, there’s still Sylvain who hasn’t changed much, but he spends more time with Mercedes than him nowadays…

There might have been a time where he would lay down his life for his brother Glenn, had he still been alive. Maybe even his father, if he was more present in Felix’s life. Or Dimitri, as a loyal friend and countryman does for his King. But in this lifetime, there’s no one that Felix can claim any strong connection to.

“You’d do anything to protect Byleth, yeah?” Yuri prods. Felix lifts his head to meet Yuri’s quirked eyebrow and imploring stare. His throat feels dry when he tries to swallow. Felix knows that he doesn’t have any attachments to money or friends, to land, country, or lovers… but Yuri presents Byleth as that lone exception so plainly for him to see and realize.

“Hmph.”

“Then you understand why I’m willing to do this stupid thing,” Yuri continues on as if Felix had actually opened his mouth and admitted he was right. “I have faith in you and her, but I know that she doesn’t have that in me right now. But she listens to you and trusts you more than anything. That much I know.”

“What are you planning with that Chalice, Yuri?” Felix asks, his voice trembling on the edge of warning.

Yuri smirks and looks up at the cobwebs on the ceiling, shaking his head like Felix had told a joke instead of asking a serious question. “I told you already—there’s people I need to protect,” he replies matter-of-factly. Felix shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the anxious feeling returning to the pit of his stomach.

“What will happen when we bring the real Chalice with, then?”

“Don’t worry,” Yuri laughs. “I have no intention of handing it over to them. You’re right on that front. We just need the real thing in case they question it’s authenticity. We’ll just use it as a shiny toy to distract them long enough to get Aelfric to safety.”

“They’ll fight back, you idiot,” Felix berates him. “We’ve argued about this enough. No one’s going to know what a dusty old cup that’s been lost for a thousand years looks like.”

Yuri grins ear to ear. “You’d be surprised, actually.”

“Ugh, this is real life, not a fucking fairytale,” Felix snaps. He takes a moment to pause and take a deep breath, all while loathing himself for what conversation he’s about to entertain for the umpteenth time today. _“If_ and _only_ _if_ we brought the real Chalice with, what will you do if it falls into their hands?”

“Easy—I won’t let that happen to begin with. Over my dead body,” Yuri replies smugly.

The swordsman grumbles. He studies the dagger in his hand for a long moment. The handle is a rich, lacquered mahogany with silver inset Crest of Fraldarius that matches the detail on the crossguards. It was a birthday gift from Glenn—he had it commissioned from one of the finest blacksmiths in Fhirdiad for Felix’s thirteenth birthday. Yuri had been there, along with Miklan and Sylvain, Ingrid and her little brothers, and Dimitri. He doesn’t know why the memory wafts into his mind, but it does… clear and colorful as it had just happened yesterday, though the memory feels like it happened a lifetime ago.

  
  


_“Why not get Felix a new bow?” Sylvain wonders aloud, his chin resting on his fist as he peers at Glenn across the dining table. “What good is a little dagger when trying to hunt pheasant or deer?”_

_“Hey, maybe he thought that the little Fraldarius needed a sword more his size,” Miklan laughs in between bites as he leans over to nudge Glenn with his elbow. The elder Fraldarius covers his mouth as he tries to finish chewing his bite of sweet bread through his snickering._

_Ingrid tells Glenn and Miklan that they are being mean, only to be brushed off by the boys’ laughter. Dimitri looks over to Felix where he’s now sulking as the elder siblings laugh, stabbing the green beans on his plate more ferociously than usual. The young prince frowns at his friend who is clearly upset. In an attempt to brighten his mood, he speaks up._

_“I bet that Felix could beat you in a spar using only that dagger, Miklan,” he announces boldly. “Felix is the best swordsman I know… aside from Glenn, of course. And Lord Rodrigue.”_

_Unfortunately, that only causes the boys’ laughter to grow and Felix to look even more dour. “Why couldn’t you just say I am a good swordsman, Dima?” he mutters._

_Dimitri stammers back a response, but Felix isn’t interested. He focuses on dissecting the food on his plate and ignoring the laughs from across the table. He’s not a Knight like Glenn is or like his Father. He’s not tall like Dima or Sylvain, nor is he good at chess like Miklan. He doesn’t even have an intended like Ingrid does, and she has two brothers._

_“Hey,” Yuri whispers over to him. “They’re just joking, Fe. Don’t let them ruin your day.”_

_“Easy for you to say when it’s not your birthday,” Felix mumbles back. “Sylvain is right, I wish he got me a bow instead.”_

_Yuri bumps his shoulder with a gentle fist. “Hey now, what did I tell you about listening to Sylvain? He isn’t right about everything. Besides, do you know what that dagger means?” he asks, pointing at the small scabbard now attached to his belt. Felix shakes his head, still frowning as he looks up at Yuri who sits beside him._

_“It's long-standing tradition in Faerghus that blades are tools of destiny. Your brother got you that dagger so you can cut yourself a path to your future,” Yuri explains. “A path that is your own—not Glenn’s, not Sylvain’s, and not Dima’s. Yours, and yours alone.”_

_Felix nods and wraps a hand around the handle of the dagger, feeling the cool metal emblem press into his hand. He nods simply at Yuri and mutters a thank you. “I didn’t know,” he admits in a small voice._

_“No need to thank me,” the lavender-haired boy laughs, turning to face his dinner plate. He scoops up some potatoes on his spoon, then tilts his chin to look back at Felix. “Just make sure I got a place in that destiny of yours, yeah?”_

  
  


“Well, there’s one thing we agree on,” Felix says, turning over the blade in his hands. “If they get that fucking cup, I’ll kill you myself.”

“Hah, I would expect nothing less from you,” Yuri laughs, slapping his palms on his knees as he stands up from the cabinets and stretches. “So I guess that means we have a deal?”

Yuri’s hand remains outstretched in the air between them as Felix hesitates for a moment too long. The light in his lavender eyes dampens as he drops his arm to his side with a sigh. “A tough sell, as always,” he admits. He begins to turn around, admitting defeat without saying anything. Felix is sure that Yuri would crawl back out of his window whence he came if he let him.

But he doesn’t.

“Fine. I’ll talk to Byleth,” he grumbles, watching the flame on the candle flicker and cast shadows across his wall. Felix swallows as he musters enough confidence to address the dark cloud that lingers over his memory of his old friend. “But only if you promise to tell me why you saved me back during the Rebellion. And why you left with those guys.”

Yuri pauses, turning his head to look back at Felix with a wide-eyed expression. “You didn’t forget about that, did you?” he drawls. “Regardless, you can’t really help a friend out and make demands of your own. It doesn’t work that way.”

“It does when you sound so desperate to have me cooperate,” Felix quips back. “And we are _not_ friends.”

With a hum and a long, pensive look… Yuri nods reluctantly. “Very well.”

  
  
  


* * *

It is easy for Claude to treat even the most difficult days as easy ones. Probably because he’s had a whole life of bad days, so he’s developed a thick skin and learned to make do. And on this particular day, one where each hour draws nearer to the Professor’s conclusion after yesterday’s heated argument, one where Hilda slept through breakfast and her first class, Felix didn’t eat breakfast at all, and Hubert stalked around the monastery looking like death himself… Claude faces it with the same disposition as any other day.

He doesn’t like to hold grudges, unlike some of the people of Abyss do, which became apparent to him yesterday evening. He also doesn’t worry himself sick about things not in his control—like some Blue Lions in particular tend to do. For better or worse, he trusts the other students and even the Ashen Wolves; after all, they all sort of stumbled into the madness together, right? People from different walks of life coming together in the face of adversity. And the fact Linhardt stayed up late each night scouting, or that Hubert actually spent time apart from Edelgard, or even that Hilda had stuck around at all to help someone other than herself… That’s all worth believing in.

And so Claude remains optimistic about the mission this evening, just like he does about the Professor’s decision. In his mind, _someone_ has to be in this situation where everyone is worked up and bickering amongst themselves. This morning, he wakes up today like any other day—rubbing the sleep from his eyes before he completes his morning meditation. He tucks his yellow tunic into his waistband and pulls on his longline Academy jacket, and heads out to the fields for some archery practice with Petra and Ashe before his first class, then works with Lorenz and Leonie to plot out some strategies for the Battle of Eagle and Lion at the end of this week. Having worked up an appetite from less than pleasant debate and disagreement with Lorenz, as has become usual for their interactions, he wanders into the dining hall as the clock strikes eleven.

 _Just one more hour,_ he thinks to himself waiting in line for his portion. When surveying the hall for a place to eat and enjoy conversation, he doesn’t see Hilda, nor Sylvain or Dorothea. Not even Dimitri is around—the little prince is never one to say no to him. He does see an open seat next to Ingrid and what looks to be like a few of the Knights; he takes it upon himself to greet them with a smile and slides onto the bench beside them.

However, it quickly becomes quite evident that he picked the wrong table to sit with after their chatter falls away to whispers and exchanged glances before they pick up their plates and move away. Ingrid gives him a pitiable look before joining the rest of them at a different table, leaving Claude all alone.

Unfortunately, he has come to expect this sort of thing. From the moment Claude first arrived in the Alliance and walked across the polished marble floors of the Forum in Derdriu, he was disliked for his looks alone—Count Gloucester and Duke Goneril among them. Of course there was speculation of his origins, and grumblings about how his grandfather, Duke Oswald von Reigan, was now far too progressive for the territories. Both Gloucester and Goneril felt it unfair that a previously unknown heir whose face looks more Alymran than Fódlanese continued House Reigan’s role of the Alliance’s leading house. They were rather outspoken about their desires to make their own houses the preemptive seat at the roundtable after Claude’s uncle’s untimely death.

Over time, some people warmed up to him, like Holst; although the majority, like Leopold Gloucester, have not. Perhaps that is why Lorenz is in constant contention with him—just following in the footsteps of his father. But the fact that Holst—someone who hates Almyrans as much as the next citizen of the Alliance—could eventually grow to respect someone like _him_ gives Claude hope that perhaps one day his dream could become a reality. A dream where people like Holst and Hilda aren’t raised to fight and kill Almyrans, where people like Ingrid aren’t raised to fear and avoid those that look like him. 

He whole-heartedly believes in the propensity for people to change. And maybe that’s foolish or too far-fetched a dream for this lifetime, but it’s worth a try, right? He smiles down at his plate, trying to keep today a good day.

“They are serving fish today!” a bright voice chimes in as a plate is set down across from him. He looks up from his food to see mint curls and a cheerful smile. “It is absolutely my favorite. It would be _dreadful_ if I were to miss. Just please do not tell my brother that I am… absent from my class for this,” Flayn whispers the last part, her small hands folding regretfully in front of her.

Claude lowers his fork to his plate. “You? Skipping class? Now I never expected such a thing out of you, Flayn,” he teases, quirking his eyebrow.

Flayn dismisses his remark with a little wave, her face alight in a playful smile equal to his own, much to his surprise. “It is only this once,” she informs him plainly.

“For the fish?”

“Yes,” she nods enthusiastically. “That and I would like to ask you a question! If you will entertain it, of course.”

Her round green eyes are peering up at him wide and wondering, sparkling like gemstones in the afternoon light that filters softly into the dining hall. He appreciates her inquisitiveness, and agrees with a kind smile. “Go ahead,” Claude tells her before taking another bite of his lunch. Flayn claps her hands together softly to preface her question, clearly excited at the opportunity.

“Could I join you and your friends the next time you take a trip into town?” she asks brightly. Claude, on the other hand, stops chewing and inhales sharply at the same time, causing him to choke a little bit on his food. He tries to conceal his coughing, but his eyes are watering even as he reaches for his glass of water. “You, Sylvain, Dorothea, and Hilda seem to be quite enjoyable to spend time with. If it would not be too much to… wait, did I say something wrong?”

Flayn’s frowning at him as he, fist to his chest, tries to cough his bite of food out of his windpipe. Realization hits him like Raphael on the training grounds—knocks the breath out of him, quite literally. _That really was her that night,_ he thinks to himself, remembering the glimpse he caught of Flayn just outside the dining hall as he and his friends crept back into the monastery after their last night out at the village pub. _She saw us, gods above. Something that will only add to the reasons for having me expelled, I’m sure._

“No, no,” Claude assures her, still coughing between words. He shakes his head and holds his hand up as a gesture for her not to worry. “It’s just… you know that we sneak out after curfew, right? You would get in a lot of trouble with your brother if he found out,” he adds carefully, clinging to the hope that he hadn’t told Seteth of his and the others’ late night excursion.

Flayn hums, tapping her bottom lip with her finger as she appears to think for a moment. “I also would get in trouble for skipping class.”

She offers him a pleasant smile—not exactly an assurance that his secret is safe from Seteth’s ears, but close enough that he’ll take it as such. As he downs a gulp of water to soothe his burning throat, he cannot help but consider the risks of allowing Flayn to join them to the pub—her overbearing brother being the first, of course. Not to mention he’s _sure_ she would stick out in a crowd of travelers, mercenaries, and other wayward figures. Sure, he and the others would look out for her, but Claude knows all too well how persistent and bothersome people can be when it suits them. Especially when you don’t look like you fit in.

That, and it’s almost _guaranteed_ that Flayn doesn’t know that they head to a pub for drinks, dancing, and gambling, anyway. If she knew that much, she probably wouldn’t be interested...

“Ugh. Flayn, this isn't the best idea…” he shakes his head, voice still gravelly as he coughs again. Claude is convinced that her joining them is the furthest thing from wise—which is why he was honest with her. But the way her eyes downcast in disappointment and how crestfallen she looks right now sitting across from him, the corners of her mouth turned down... a twinge of guilt strikes Claude.

He combs through his hair with his fingers and sighs deeply, leaning his cheek on his fist. “I’ll think about it, okay?” he says hesitantly. Agreeing without _really_ and truly agreeing. All while hoping inwardly that he doesn’t live to regret his moment of softness. “Let me talk to the others and we can see about next time—”

“That would be lovely!” Flayn interrupts, her face alight again with excitement. The smile that splits across her face between pink cheeks is enough to soothe Claude’s worries about the whole matter—for now. “Thank you so much, Claude!”

He nods, taking another long drink of his water before daring himself to take another bite. Across the table from him, Flayn finally picks up her own utensils to begin her meal. However, she stops herself and looks up at him all wide-eyed again. “Oh, I do hope it is alright that I sit with you!” she says, shaking her head. “Forgive me for not asking before I just sat myself down… I just thought that you looked lonely.”

Claude scrunches his face at her last word. _Lonely._ He laughs about it—an easy way to disarm any words that are meant to hurt. That’s something his mother taught him before moving to Fódlan months ago—and with as much criticism as he is under all of the time, that sentiment has helped him navigate through many difficult situations with grace. _That’s the job of a leader—to keep smiling and keep marching forward through despair,_ he remembers.

So Claude smiles back at her as pleasantly as he can muster. “Me? Lonely? You’ve got it all wrong. I was just waiting for the perfect lady to join me, that’s all,” he adds with a playful wink.

“You flatter me,” she laughs, bringing her fingertips up to her lips. But her expression quickly turns again to one of concern. “But if you would like me to leave, I can find somewhere else to sit. I do not want to impose.”

“Please, Flayn. You can stay,” he insists, shaking his head. “I have to say that I enjoy your company.”

She graces him with another smile as she finally tucks into her food with gusto. “Thank you. Usually I sit with Ferdinand during lunch,” Flayn tells him, cutting a piece of fish with the side of her fork. “That way Linhardt will not try to sit next to me… but both of them are not in the dining hall today. Did they not just return from visiting family?”

Claude shrugs as he takes a bite of his own food. He knows Linhardt returned to the monastery yesterday, but gods know where he is right now. All of the students involved down in Abyss seem to be coping with the approaching mission today in different ways—perhaps Lin is off napping somewhere over the latest book he’s nabbed from the underground library.

He also knows that Linhardt pesters Flayn quite regularly with questions about her crest. It’s no secret to anyone at the monastery that she was kidnapped last moon by the Death Knight and the Flame Emperor, and the current rumor circulating is that it was because they wanted her crested blood. She does bear the Major Crest of Cethleann, one of the Four Saints venerated by the Church of Seiros. Yet, peculiarly, she does not share her crest with her brother, Seteth.

So Claude cannot fault Lin for being interested, necessarily—he has plenty of his _own_ questions for Flayn, that he will ask one day soon. Perhaps him agreeing to bring her along on his friends’ past-curfew excursions will pay off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, happy Ethereal Moon, everyone! ❄️ I think I'm on track to publish 200k+ words before Bernadetta's birthday. Yikes! But thank you so so much for your comments and kudos on the last chapter. As always, I would appreciate hearing your thoughts/reactions/feedback on this chapter in the comments. If we can make it to 5k hits and 200 kudos by the end of the year, I think I would cry! (Happy tears, my friends.)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. We're setting the stage for the final part of our Cindered Shadows arc... and in case you missed it... tensions are high. 🙃 And a special message to all of my Dimileth readers out there... your patience will be greatly rewarded very soon. 😊
> 
> [ _listen to the *updated* playlist for slings & arrows here_ ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5uhJA6V43ClEGJe6RsBOAB?si=cdNGCGMUQD60BOrEz2cpdA)


	13. The Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand and Linhardt visit their childhood friends. Felix makes a promise, and lives to regret it. Byleth is mistaken for someone else. Seteth gets the last word. Constance recalls her time at the Royal School of Sorcery. Hubert was right all along--no one is ever as they seem. 
> 
> “Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw incense.”  
>  _-King Lear, 5.3.23-24_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! ☃️🎄🎁 I come bearing gifts!! 18k+ words, to be exact, with this absolute beast of a chapter. Hopefully it will tide you over until the new year!
> 
> Speaking of... _Slings & Arrows_ is now officially one year old! *cheers* 🥳🎉🎂 How exciting is that?! I never thought that I'd ever share my fan fiction online... nor did I ever think that I could keep with it this long. But I am glad that I did, because writing was my saving grace during this year. And of course, all of you who read, comment, subscribe, and leave kudos! Your feedback truly means the world to me!
> 
> Also, many thanks to my lovely friend [Telsiree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telsiree/pseuds/Telsiree) who beta'd this chapter. ❤️
> 
> 🎵 [ _Listen to the *updated* playlist for Slings & Arrows here!_ ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5uhJA6V43ClEGJe6RsBOAB?si=cdNGCGMUQD60BOrEz2cpdA) 🎵

“Lysithea, it is good to see you again,” the woman says, her voice oddly frail. 

Ferdinand ducks through the front door after the young mage, Linhardt not too far behind him. Lysithea had kept her word, and warped each of them here one at a time. They arrived in some indiscriminate town in Ordelia county—Lysithea mentioned as much the day before, but it's evident nonetheless based on the half-timbered homes with the signature Ordelian red brick walls and thatched roofs. She leads them up the steps to a small, modest cottage, knocking twice and announcing herself before entering.

Ferdinand notices immediately how she glances around the front façade of the house first before pushing the heavy door open, the hinges creaking as she does so. Once inside, he loosens the scarf around his neck and takes in the woman sitting by the crackling fire, several woven blankets covering her lap. She runs a slender hand over Lysithea’s cheek affectionately, thanking her again for visiting.

Lysithea motions to him and Linhardt, stepping out of the way so that the woman in the chair can have a clear line of sight to see her other visitors. When Ferdinand meets her eyes, they are as he remembers them—brilliant shining gold, but kind, and upturned at the corners. However, he does not remember Lady Rosalind being so… thin. Her cheekbones are clearly visible and her eyes seem too big for her face; her slender neck disappears into a knit sweater that seems to swallow her figure whole. Her hair, a rich chocolate brown, as Ferdinand remembers it, is pulled back tightly into a bun and is now a mostly shady grey. It is surprising, too, to see her face look so weathered; she is younger than her father by a decade and a half, but looks that much older than him.

He hadn’t seen her for several years now, so he expected her to look  _ older… _ but nothing like this. Despite that, Ferdinand is never one to judge someone based on their looks, so he smiles at her kindly regardless of her shocking appearance.

“It is a pleasure to meet you again, Lady Rosalind,” he says warmly with a bow. Linhardt extends a similar greeting, but the former Imperial consort furrows her brow in confusion. She looks at Lysithea almost panicked, asking who they are. At first, Ferdinand doesn’t blame her for not recognizing them—the last she saw of them, they were still children. But even after reiterating their names, she still shakes her head and asks yet again. That’s when Ferdinand gives Linhardt a concerned side glance— _ something about this is not right, _ he thinks to himself.

Linhardt seems to be on the same wavelength, his lips pressing together into a thin line as he gives Ferdinand a terse nod, barely detectable to either of the women in the room. Lady Rosalind was not yet twenty when she became consort and had her first child with the Emperor… and that was only a few short years before the Insurrection… making her no older than 30 by Ferdinand’s estimate. He would expect failing memory from his grandmother, who is over twice Lady Rosalind’s age—except his dearest grandmother is still quite spry.

“It’s quite alright, Rosa—” Lysithea soothes, a gentle hand on the Lady’s trembling arm. She points at the two of them again, repeating her words slowly once more, careful to articulate each syllable. “This is Linhardt von Hevring and Ferdinand von Aegir.”

“Von Hevring,” she finally repeats, her mouth forming the words just as slowly as Lysithea said to her. Lady Rosalind peers back into the pink eyes behind the snowy fringe of hair as Lysithea smiles and nods, patting her arm reassuringly.

“Yes! Do you remember?”

Lady Rosalind nods quickly, though she only gives Linhardt that same blank stare as before. Her attention then turns to Ferdinand. He meets her golden gaze as she murmurs, “von Aegir.” Ferdinand smiles patiently, but Lady Rosalind does not smile back.

“Von Aegir…” she repeats. “Ludwig von Aegir.”

Her empty expression quickly shifts into panic again, her right arm trembling even more now and Lysithea tries her best to soothe the tremors. It does little to help how agitated and distraught Lady Rosalind is becoming.

“No, I am his son—  _ Ferdinand,” _ he tries as gently as he is able. A pang of guilt strikes him for how upset he is making her, even though she clearly has him confused for his father.  _ My father…  _ he thinks to himself, a wave of unease hitting him.

“No offense, but I don’t think she’s going to calm down with you standing there,” Lysithea interjects, turning her head to look at him and Linhardt. “If you wanted to visit her children, they’re down the hall and to the left. I’ll take care of her.”

Ferdinand and Linhardt both nod and excuse themselves quickly, leaving the sitting room to venture down the hall to the other side of the cottage. It’s a small corridor with two doors on either side. Linhardt knocks on the left-hand door, then leans over to Ferdinand to murmur in his ear so that no one could hear but him.

“Read anything in your father’s journal about  _ that?” _ he asks.

Ferdinand swallows before shaking his head. “No,” he replies.  _ Not yet. _

No one answers the door or calls for them to enter, but they both hear muffled noises and what sounds like talking from inside the room. Linhardt, ever forward and sometimes lacking proper decorum, knocks again swiftly before just pushing the door open and stepping inside. Ferdinand refrains from chastising his housemate and follows the mage into the room… only to run straight into him.

Linhardt had only taken but three steps into the room before stopping dead in his tracks, stunned into silence.

The room was sparsely furnished—only two small beds which appeared neatly made with linen sheets tucked under the mattresses, a modest chest of drawers, and a single chair in the corner. In that chair sat one of the children—Eleonora, from what Ferdinand can tell. She sits staring out the window unmoving, her lavender eyes glassed over and not responding to either him or Linhardt. Her hair is still done in two braids like she wore when she was a child, but she, like her mother, had what looked like strands of grey hair running through them. They shone in the light from the window—a stark contrast to her deep brown tresses.

“Eleonora… can you hear me?” Ferdinand tries again. She still doesn’t respond—doesn’t even blink as she stares mindlessly out the window. Though she isn’t staring at him, it still makes Ferdinand feel uneasy.  _ Is she ill? And her hair… she must be Lysithea’s age now, too young for her hair to begin greying like this. This is… unnatural. _

“Stop that,” Linhardt says—firm, but kind. Ferdinand looks over to him addressing the other child who sits atop one of the beds. Bertram—the youngest Hresvelg. He has grown since the last time they had both seen him—he was barely three years of age back then, just a toddler that was full of energy, always chasing after his older siblings and the other noble children. But, unlike the other Hresvelg boys who were all tall and lean, Bertram’s height was notably stunted compared to that of his brothers when they were his age. That, and Ferdinand cannot help but notice clumps of his hair missing.

Bertram sits cross-legged on the bed facing Linhardt who stands before him, trying and pleading with the boy to stop fidgeting with his hands. It seemed innocuous enough until Ferdinand gets a closer look—the boy is picking at the skin around his fingernails to a degree where the tips of his fingers are raw and dripping crimson. Some of the wounds look especially bad to the point where his fingers are either blackened or swollen and beginning to fester. Each time Linhardt tries to capture one of his hands within his own, little flashes of white healing magic to help soothe what looks to be like an utterly painful condition, Bertram yanks his hands away and continues to pick with a more concerted effort than before.

After several attempts, this only begins to agitate the boy. He starts to rock back and forth, tears welling up in his eyes and his mouth moving to make words, but no words coming out. Eventually, Linhardt stands up abruptly, tearing himself away from Bertram and Eleonora and heading straight to the door. Hand on handle, he stills.

“Let’s go,” he says weakly. “I cannot be here anymore.”

Ferdinand swallows. He looks back over at the two Hresvelgs… except he’s not confident he can call them as such anymore. They are nothing but shadows of what they once were. He would bid them goodbye, but he assumes they never really heard or understood his greeting to begin with.

_ There is something wrong, here,  _ Ferdinand worries, the pins and needles of dread sticking his forearms and the back of his neck.  _ Something is very,  _ very  _ wrong. _

When he follows Linhardt out into the hallway, something grabs hold of his elbow—both startling him and preventing him from rejoining Lysithea and Lady Rosalind in the sitting room. Paralyzed in fear, he can only crane his neck to see a set of intense purple eyes staring down at him. They’re deep set, almost looking like they are sunken into the man’s skull—probably because of how emaciated and atrophied the person is. The chill from the man’s bony fingers creeps into Ferdinand even through the layers of fabric covering his arm.

“The beast…” the man tells him; his voice is deep but thin, like he is sick or has gone days without water. It trembles ominously, but is oddly familiar and Ferdinand’s heart is thunderous in his chest as his legs feel like ice. “Who is like the beast?”

“W-what beast?” Ferdinand asks timidly. “Are you? Are you…” he murmurs, studying the man’s face more intently, wracking his brain for where he had heard that voice before. The tall, gaunt man doesn’t seem to have heard him, or maybe doesn’t care. Because he continues on talking all while holding Ferdinand firmly in place—a feat that should be impossible given his condition. The man looks downright skeletal, his face hauntingly thin, but Ferdinand’s fear keeps him firmly in place, too shocked to be able to move.

“Who is like the beast? Who is like the beast? The beast that rose out of the sea. The beast that brings Despair,” the man babbles.

“All the world marvelled and followed the beast. Who is like the beast?”

Ferdinand feels trapped, like the walls of the corridor are closing in on him. It’s like his ears are plugged, stuffed with wool or filled with water.

“Who is like the beast?”

He’s dizzy.

“Who is able to make war with the beast?”

He… he  _ knows. _

“D-Dieterich?”

There’s a flash of cognizance in those empty lavender eyes—a brief moment where the babbling ceases and clarity returns. Ferdinand studies the man. It sounds like him… he’s as tall as him… and he would look like him, too, if it wasn’t for his hair.

_ His hair. _

Ferdinand reaches up with a shaking arm and touches a lock of the man’s hair—now grown long compared to how he last remembers it being. But then again, a  _ lot _ of him is different from how he last remembers him. The eldest Hresvelg flinches slightly as Ferdinand gently brushes the silvery strands on his head with his fingertips. His hair isn’t the same chestnut that it used to be. It’s brittle and dry, and unlike his younger half-sister, his  _ entire _ head is a shock of silver hair that hangs limply over his brow.

“What happened to your hair?” Ferdinand whispers.

There’s a knock at the front door of the cottage, and it startles the both of them—Dieterich more so. He retreats further into the hallway, jerking Ferdinand along with him. Ferdinand regards the older man and sees the alarm in those purple eyes.

“Ferdinand,” the older man gasps, the bony fingers digging into his forearm. “Please… tell Edelgard…”

Ferdinand takes his free arm and grabs Dieterich’s shoulder, looking into his eyes with sincerity and with urgency. Fear is still thrumming through his body, he still feels like he is suffocating in this hallway… but he needs to know. He  _ needs _ to. “Tell her what?” he asks desperately. “What do you need me to tell her?”

Behind him, he can hear the front door creak open as a beam of light from the outside filters down the hall through the gap between the door and its frame.

“Tell her…” Dieterich stutters, the focus fading from his eyes. “Tell her… about the beast.”

“The beast?” Ferdinand pleads as footsteps enter the cottage, creaking the floorboards of the sitting room. “I don’t know what you mean—”

“She cannot be like the beast,” he whimpers, his voice growing hoarse. “Tell her… the beast… Edelgard…”

“Dieterich,” a man’s voice, strong and clear, comes from behind Ferdinand. “I am surprised to see you up and about. Shouldn’t you be resting?”

The eldest Hresvelg’s hand drops immediately, releasing Ferdinand from his hold. Even in the dimly lit corridor, he can notice the older man shiver. He goes back to muttering, under his breath this time, and slips into the room across the hall from Eleonora and Bertram’s.

“Ah, is that you, Ferdinand?” the man behind him asks. Shakily, Ferdinand turns around to see the owner of the voice—a haughty gentleman with well-tailored suiting and brilliant purple hair brushed back, not a strand out of place.

“Oh, Count Gloucester!” Ferdinand says, a little  _ too _ loud. “Yes, it is me.”

Even if his response was uncharismatic of him, the Count does not seem to pay it any mind. He gives Ferdinand a perfunctory smile like he always has. He and his father are close friends, having met at the Officers’ Academy while attending together a few decades ago, now. Ferdinand’s father would always make time to visit his friend in the Alliance each year, even with his many responsibilities as Prime Minister; once he was old enough to travel, Ferdinand would accompany him on these trips.

“Well it certainly is a surprise to see you here, along with young Linhardt and Lysithea,” Count Gloucester continues, shifting his attention to Ferdinand’s classmates in the sitting room. “I hope you are not disturbing Dieterich and the children too much. They need their rest and don’t do well with visitors much of the time.”

The Count waves Ferdinand out of the hallway to join the others. Lysithea is still sitting with Lady Rosalind, her hand continuing to stroke her arm affectionately as a means to calm her. But any improvement made in that regard is lost once Count Gloucester steps closer to her, stooping down slightly to be more at her eye-level. Almost immediately, the tremors return to her hands beneath the pile of blankets—so much so that it nearly knocks the blankets off her lap entirely. Her eyes narrow and her breathing quickens.

“I brought you all lunch, Rosalind,” he tells her cheerily, holding up what is presumably a dish or plate of food with a tea towel tied around it. “And it is your favorite—Bourgeois Pike.”

Lady Rosalind shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “No,” she utters, her eyebrows knitting together into a deep frown.

This only seems to amuse the Count as he chuckles at her while straightening up. “No? Don’t tell me your guests spoiled your appetite,” he remarks. He turns his attention to Lysithea, who shrinks ever so slightly under his gaze. “I did not recall this being your mother’s day to drop by, Lysithea. Or that you had time off from your studies with the Battle of the Eagle and Lion so near.”

She shakes her head with remorse. “My apologies,” Lysithea says with a respectful bow. “I must have gotten the days mixed up. None of them have eaten yet, sir. And we can be on our way.”

Ferdinand has never heard Lysithea so…  _ meek _ before. But he and Linhardt both pick up on their cue for them to leave. The green-haired mage mutters goodbyes to the Count and practically flies out the door first, while Lysithea follows him out after she says something to Lady Rosalind. Ferdinand grabs his scarf from the back of one of the chairs in the sitting room and wraps it around his neck. With one foot out the door, the Count interrupts him.

“Does your father know that you are here?” he asks, keenly looking over at him from across the room.

Ferdinand grits his teeth before answering. “Yes,” he lies, against his better judgement. He’s not really sure why he decides to lie before he just says it. Regret and shame immediately begin to emulsify with the dreadful sense of foreboding that the cottage had sown in him.  _ What is wrong with me? _

“Ah, I see,” the Count replies after a beat. “Well, it was nice to see you, Ferdinand. You’ve grown taller since I last saw you.”

A smile, a nod. A gracious thank you, and a polite bid farewell. Count Gloucester returns Ferdinand’s smile with a wave as he makes his way to the kitchen to serve Lady Rosalind, her children, and Dieterich their lunch. Goddess knows they aren’t capable of preparing food for themselves in their state. Ferdinand pulls the cottage door shut behind him, and joins Linhardt and Lysithea on the cobblestone street, the latter bundled up and shivering despite it not really being that cold and wearing a wool sweater and two coats.

“Let’s head back,” she says through chattering teeth.

Linhardt is quick to stop her, though. He grabs her forearm rather forcefully, causing her to yelp. It takes Ferdinand aback, even. Linhardt isn't one to be that aggressive. 

“We’re  _ not _ going to just leave here and pretend like any of that was normal,” he contests bitterly.

Lysithea gives him a look of genuine surprise, then she yanks her arm free. She pivots and looks at Ferdinand, too. “Wait… I thought you both  _ knew.” _

“Knew _ what? _ That our friends—the  _ Imperial _ consort and children, mind you—are wasting away in some cottage in the middle of Leicester?” Linhardt admonishes, his voice reaching a pitch that is beginning to draw the attention of the few other townsfolk walking nearby. “Or that the Ordelias and the Glouscesters just so happen to be privy to all of this—”

“Don’t you  _ dare _ lump us in with  _ them,” _ Lysithea hisses, snatching a fistful of Linhardt’s coat and pulling him down to her. After a long, tense moment, she releases him from her grasp. “Perhaps you two don’t know anything at all.”

Shaking her head, she looks away from them both, forlorn. “You saw him, didn’t you?” she asks neither of them in particular, but Ferdinand knows she’s speaking to him. And that she’s speaking about Dieterich.

“Yes…” Ferdinand murmurs as he shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets. The eldest Hresvelg’s babbling keeps playing over and over again in his head, like nails on slate or a horribly out-of-tune fiddle. Grating… incessant…  _ the beast... _

“Remind you of anyone?” Lysithea asks, interrupting the tumble of his thoughts and bringing him back to present.

“Edelgard,” he whispers into the cool autumn air. Ferdinand can sense Linhardt’s attention snapping over to him, his blue eyes dissecting him as he conjectures aloud. “And  _ you, _ too, Lysithea.”

  
  


* * *

After Byleth announces that they will bring the Chalice of Beginnings to the old chapel ruins that evening, there are few who are pleased about the decision—Hapi, Balthus, and, by extension, Hilda… though Felix doubts that airheaded girl has any strong feelings of her own toward the matter.

And Yuri, of course. He is the one who requested that Felix sway Byleth’s opinion. And, perhaps unfortunately and  _ definitely _ against his better judgement, he agreed to said request. So Felix met with Byleth before her morning classes, collar on his jacket upturned to guard against the cold morning wind. He rescinded his council with furrowed brow and fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm, wishing all the while he won’t live to regret it.

The regret begins to drip into his mind when Claude, Linhardt, and the others express their dissent at Byleth’s decision. His gut pools with unease as they grumble and argue back again, though less drawn out this time. His lips remain pressed tight and wordless as Hubert and Constance threaten to back out of the mission under their breaths. Felix idly wishes for the same.

But despite it all, he marches alongside the others as the fast-approaching twilight creeps into the sky above the Garreg Mach. Hilda props the head of her axe on her left shoulder as she talks with Claude; Linhardt keeps the pace with them, but is still oddly quiet, practically sulking his way across the cobblestone beneath his feet. The boar walks shoulder to shoulder with Byleth who’s carrying the Chalice—both of them lead the way through the Garreg Mach village to the chapel ruins. Balthus and Hapi march together, same with Hubert and Constance.

And then there’s Yuri.

Alone. Eyes cast down to the ground. One hand resting on his sword, the other tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket.

“Nervous?” Felix decides to ask.

Yuri looks up and back at him, surprised at the question. He slows his pace to allow Felix to catch up to him, the two of them now walking in stride with each other at the back of the group. “Me? Never,” he says with a fake laugh. “You should know that by now.”

Even the small smile he gives Felix is fake, lacking all of its normal charisma. For someone who lies all the time, Yuri really isn’t even bothering to conceal his dishonesty now. With the others only a few paces ahead of them, he decides not to press the issue anymore with risk of them overhearing. But the regret from earlier begins to drip more insistently in the back of Felix’s mind—like a trough with a leak, water rhythmically pattering onto the hay and leaves beneath. 

“Listen, Felix,” Yuri says suddenly. “Things might get ugly out there. Promise me something, will you?”

Felix nearly trips over his own boots.

  
  
  


_ The days that follow the news of the Tragedy are spent in Felix’s guest room at the Royal Castle in Fhirdiad, buried under the covers with the curtains drawn, bathing the room in darkness. It used to be the room that Felix and Glenn had shared all while growing up. Now, it is just Felix’s room. _

_ He wants nothing more than to return home to Castle Fraldarius and lock himself up in Glenn’s room, but this will have to do instead. He never really said goodbye to Glenn before he left with the King to Duscur, so he mutters it over and over again into his old pillow, willing his tears not to fall. _

_ His mother and the royal servants come and go out of the room to leave him meals that he refuses to eat… His father tries to reassure him that Glenn died like a true knight, and that he should be  _ proud  _ of him for his sacrifice…  _

_ Sacrifice for what, exactly? For  _ this? _ No amount of nice words can bring Glenn back. _

_ His father also tries to get Felix to go and talk to Dimitri—says that the prince needs him to be a friend right now. Felix knows that Dima lost his parents… but Felix lost Glenn! Ingrid lost Glenn! Everyone is hurting right now, not just Dima… _

_ It hurts. And as the days pass... it hurts  _ more.

_ Eventually, his father stops coming in to talk to him all together. His mother still tries to get him to eat, but Felix still won’t take a bite. This worries her, he knows. But he just…  _ can’t. _ Without Glenn… nothing has any meaning. Food has no taste, the sunlight brings no joy… the days fade into each other without rhyme or reason. So what if he doesn’t eat? It doesn’t matter anymore. _

_ “It  _ does  _ matter,” Yuri tells him one day. He’s the only one who bothers to visit him aside from his mother. “If you don’t eat, you’ll die.” _

_ It’s supposed to be a joke, Felix knows. But he likes the sound of that. Of dying. _

_ He doesn’t know if Yuri can read minds or how he was able to divine his thoughts, but he grabs Felix by the shoulders suddenly and pulls him upright in the bed. _

_ “Look, that isn’t an option,” he says, serious as ever. Even in the dim light of the room, Felix can see the earnest look in Yuri’s lavender eyes. “Not for you, not for me.” _

_ “I won’t tell you what the others do, that everything will be alright,” Yuri continues, shaking his head. “Because how can anything be the same without someone you love? It’s OK to be sad, Fe. Don’t let your father tell you not to cry, because you should.” _

_ Felix stares back at Yuri and sees the tears beginning to roll down his cheeks, matching his own. He swallows hard and buries his mouth and chin into his forearm, biting back a sob. _

_ “But a knight isn’t supposed to cry,” he mourns, his words muffled by the sleeve of his tunic. _

_ “Fuck that,” Yuri says quickly, giving Felix’s shoulders a shake for emphasis. “And fuck knighthood—it’s all backwards. Crying means that we care for something outside of ourselves. It means that we’re human. So cry. It’s OK.” _

_ He can feel his lower lip tremble, days and days of anguish and grief that he pushed aside now hitting him like a brick. Felix feels himself lose his composure as he crumples forward, Yuri catching him in a comforting embrace. The older boy allows Felix to bawl into his shoulder until his cheeks and nose are raw, all while rubbing calming circles onto his back. _

_ Felix knows Yuri was Glenn’s best friend, so in a way, it feels like an extension of his brother is hugging him now, giving him permission to grieve. _

_ “Promise me something, will you?” Yuri murmurs into his hair. Felix sniffles and nods into the linen fabric of his shirt. “Promise me that you’ll eat your food. That you’ll cry when you feel sad. That one day, when you’re ready, you’ll leave this room and spar and hunt with our friends again like we used to.” _

_ “Promise me that you’ll go on living. That you’ll stay safe,” he says. “That’s what Glenn would have wanted for you.” _

_ Felix chokes on another sob, but shakes his head yes. He hugs tighter to Yuri, finding it cathartic to let everything out. He’ll eat his dinner when his mother brings it to his room tonight. He’ll cry into Glenn’s pillow when old memories resurface. And he’ll go outside and spar with Yuri on the training grounds for a little bit each day until they both have to return home again for the winter. _

_ Each day, he’ll keep his promise—to live. For Yuri… and for Glenn. _

  
  
  


“I’ll stay safe,” Felix responds, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat, pushing those old memories aside.

Yuri smiles brokenly over at him. “Yes, that too. But what I mean is…” he says, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I need you to promise me that whatever happens, don’t let Byleth run from it.”

For a moment, the only sound between the two of them is the crunch of leaves and gravel beneath their boots.

“Run from what? Byleth would never run from anything—”

“There’s always something that people can’t handle,” Yuri says ominously. He looks up at the evening sky, the pink and purple hues of the setting sun painting the sky. “Just… promise me. Promise me that you will convince her to keep fighting instead of giving up, that you won’t let her use those powers of hers to try and stop time or go back.”

Felix’s heart begins to pick up pace in his chest as the steady drip of regret turns into a steady trickle as dread begins to seep into his bones, dampening his clothes and causing them to cling to him in an almost oppressive way. Reflexively, he curls his hand around the pommel of his sword as he stutters over his words. “W-what is going on? Yuri, what are you saying?” he demands.

“I’m asking you this so you can protect her,” Yuri replies, matter-of-factly.

He’s so cool about it, like this all was just another day to him. Like they weren’t about to go toe-to-toe with the same people that killed Byleth’s father, and killed goddess-knows how many other of his classmates and fellow soldiers in arms. Like he wasn’t implying that something fucking  _ awful _ is about to happen to them all.

“From what?” Felix asks again, this time his words are biting.

“Just promise me, alright?” Yuri answers somberly. The expression on his face is pleading. “Don’t make me beg.”

The grass around the abandoned old chapel is overgrown and beginning to brown in the autumn weather. In the last remaining daylight, the group stays close to each other as they draw near the moss-covered stone and boarded up windows crawling with ivy. Approaching the chapel from the opposite side of the field is a group of crimson-clad men—the  _ Flame Emperor’s _ men.

  
  
  


* * *

Aeflric begs her not to hand over the Chalice. He urges them to retreat, telling them the Chalice is more important than his own life. The golden chalice weighs heavily in Byleth’s hands as she hesitates for just a moment… a moment too long, as fate would have it. A blade is pressed dangerously close to the junction of Aelfric’s neck and shoulder, resulting in both sides drawing their weapons, spiraling closer to combat instead of a peaceful exchange for a hostage.

Though Yuri shouts above the din, promising the Chalice if everyone lowers their weapons… it is clear that unwavering hands are not letting go of their weapons so easily, and the threat of violence against Aelfric is so real and palpable with sharp steel against his skin that Balthus and Hapi retaliate without thinking. And hardly without any prior discussion.

A swing of gauntlets and a shriek of a summoned monster later launches all of them into conflict. The only saving grace is that the giant winged beast that Hapi summons effectively scares half of the Flame Emperor’s soldiers into scattering, allowing enough of a chance for Constance to warp into the fold and get Aelfric to safety.

She inspects him for injury near the chapel ruins while the others fend off the beast running rampant and the soldiers that have remained under orders from their commander—the same shrewd and ruthless dastard that Byleth remembers from the Holy Tomb and the Battle of Garreg Mach in her past life.  _ General Metodey, _ she recalls.  _ One of Edelgard’s best commanders. _

Byleth knows it's the Chalice they are after, so with Aelfric out of harm's way for now, she hangs back out of the fray, clutching the goblet under her arm. It doesn’t take long for her students and the Ashen Wolves to fell the beast and the remaining soldiers. Hilda wipes a spot of blood from her cheek with the back of her hand after sinking her axe into a man's torso, while Claude pulls back on his bow, launching a few arrows after some deserters near the forest’s edge.

Hubert, on the other hand, appears to revel in blasting the sword out of the Metodey’s hands—purple smoke and the smell of burning flesh wafting through on the cool evening breeze. The general crumples to the ground, but begins to push himself up on his elbows, not ready to give up a fight just yet. Byleth watches as Hubert gives Metodey a helping hand by yanking him up out of the dirt by the lapel of his jacket. The dark-haired mage sneers at him dangerously, his free hand wrapping around the man’s throat and beginning to glow with a violet spell.

“Do your worst. I don’t mind pain,” Metodey growls through gritted teeth as the spell already begins searing his skin, his bangs clinging to the sweat on his forehead. “Though you’ll live to regret it, Vestra.”

Hubert laughs darkly, tightening his hand around the man’s throat. “It’s a good thing I don’t mind pain either.”

Linhardt and Hapi have to look away as Hubert finishes the job, an awful noise something between a howl and a shriek leaving the general’s mouth. His body is dropped to the ground as Hubert brushes off his jacket, smearing some blood over the buttons. She notices Felix gives the scene a captious look of his own before he sheathes his blade. He and the others join Byleth, Aelfric, and Constance near the ruins.

“You OK, Aelfric?” Balthus asks, removing his steel gauntlets that have rusted around the edges, having seen better days.

“I am. All thanks to you, my dear flock,” Aelfric nods. He exhales a breath of relief and smiles back at him and the other three Ashen Wolves before turning to face Byleth. “And you, too, of course. The Chalice—is it unharmed?”

Byleth tosses the fabric of her cloak aside, revealing the goblet tucked safely under the crook of her arm. The cardinal releases a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing as he smiles wistfully at her. “You have my gratitude. You are a woman of your word—protecting my flock and keeping them safe under your wing when I could not,” he extends a soft and gentle hand in her direction. “Now please, allow me to finish this mission and return the Chalice to its home at the monastery.”

She reaches for the goblet with her free hand, her fingers curling around the ornate gilded stem. “Your mother will be so proud of you, Byleth,” he says fondly as she extends the Chalice out to him—

“Huh?” she asks dumbly, her feet stop in the grass. She blinks at him, replaying his words in her head.  _ He just misspoke, _ she tells herself. But something else inside her causes her to pull back the Chalice, clutching it once more to her chest.

“The Chalice, Byleth,” he repeats. But something about his voice is different then. She remains firmly rooted where she stands, a gust of wind fluttering her cloak and tousling locks of her hair across her brow and nose.

Then everything happens too quickly.

Aelfric’s expression changes from fond to flint, the angles of his face much sharper than they were a moment before. The sun sinks further behind the trees, the sky awash with a deep violet that matches the three flashes of light that surround the cardinal suddenly. Crimson robes and beaked-masks warp in beside Aelfric. And while Balthus and Hapi panic—rushing to their benefactor’s aid once more—the mages are quick to disarm them.

Hapi drops in a heap to the ground, and Balthus falls to his knees, his arms bound magically behind him by a black spell that burns at the flesh around his wrists. He struggles to break free, but cannot despite his strength.

In response, Hubert pulls Constance behind him, guarding him with his tall frame. One of the mages challenges him, though, firing off a Silence spell before Hubert can raise a gloved hand to him. When Hubert tries to cast, the magic fizzles out at his fingertips, his mouth forming incantations for his dark magic but no words coming out. Constance looks like she is screaming, her face pale with fear and panic… but her shrill cries cannot be heard, likely falling victim to the same spell as Hubert.

For a few seconds, Hubert tries to fight off the mage physically, but he can only hold him off so long in their struggle without a weapon or his magic. The mage wedges themself between the two of them, enough to rip Constance away from Hubert, who is then blown backward by a sulfuric blast. Before any of her other students can make it over to the dire scene, Aelfric ignites the dry brush and dying grass with a wave of his hand—a wall of flames growing behind Byleth, preventing any aid from her students.

The glow from the fire casts harsh shadows on Aelfric’s features, his brown eyes reflecting red and orange. Like a snake coming out of the darkness, his true colors are on display. To think that a cardinal of the Church was an ally of the Flame Emperor all along. Byleth simmers, flush with anger.

Now trapped with Aelfric and the dark mages, the Ashen Wolves shackled one by one… Byleth tries to find their leader—her last hope to turn the tide. She knows Yuri is skilled in combat—effortlessly able to challenge her and Felix both in a two-on-one scenario. Their swords combined  _ could _ stand a chance against these mages and Aelfric. She squints against the bright flames licking the evening sky, the heat uncomfortable against her cheeks as she scans the area for a lavender head of hair.

Byleth fends off one mage with a whip of the Sword of the Creator, but backs up right into something, nearly tripping in the process. She throws a glance over her shoulder and sees Yuri—sword drawn and eyes wide.  _ Thank the goddess he’s safe,  _ she thinks to herself as the Sword recoils back into place. “Let’s stick together—”

As abruptly as Yuri bumps into her, his sword arm pummels into her chin causing her to bite down on her tongue. And in that split second of sharp pain and metallic warmth blooming in her mouth, his free hand rips the Chalice free from her grasp. Frantically she flails back out for the golden goblet, but is swiftly met with a violent shove that easily knocks her already off-balance frame to the ground. Byleth loses her grip on the Sword of the Creator, and it tumbles several feet across the grass.

“Yuri! You damned scoundrel!” she can hear Balthus growl, still struggling against his magical binds. “What are you doing?!”

“Heh, I think you can see what I'm doing, Balthus.”

Byleth pulls herself up gingerly off the ground and takes a few unsteady steps forward toward Yuri. Toward the traitor who deceived her and all of them.  _ I was so foolish to believe… _ She extends an open hand at her side.  _ To give you even a single chance at all… _ Her forehead creases with disdain and dangerous intent as she wills the Sword of the Creator to tumble across the scorched earth and fly into her waiting hand.  _ This is my punishment…  _ The Sword glows white hot in her palm as she lunges toward the betrayer standing before her.  _...for not killing you earlier. _

A gutteral sound escapes from her throat, crying out through the twilight as she swings down her blade with as much force as she can muster, her muscles shaking with intense fury as she locks swords with Yuri. Simultaneously, the scene around them—the flames dancing against the night sky, the dark mages and the shackled Wolves, the treasonous cardinal—all of it fractures into a static pause. Byleth doesn’t need any other distractions. She knows freezing time and even pulsing back against Yuri is useless—he knows this as well, smirking wickedly at her over their crossed blades. A secret that he held in plain sight for her since their very first encounter—and a grave mistake on her part.

“I get it now,” Byleth says through gritted teeth. Her voice waivers as intensely as the wave of anger crests inside of her, burning in her lungs and in her fingertips, blood coating her teeth and tongue. “You won us over with honest trifles so it was easier to slide the knife in our backs.”

Yuri smirks as he slides his rapier out from underneath the Sword, deftly avoiding her next strike. “You sound like Felix,” he muses.

The mention of the Blue Lions’ swordsman only adds to her furor. It was unwise for Byleth to trust a stranger like Yuri—but it was expected for her to trust Felix. It was  _ safe _ to trust him, she thought. She asked him just yesterday if she should trust the leader of the Ashen Wolves… and he did  _ nothing _ to warn her of this. He did  _ nothing _ to dissuade her from believing in whatever sliver of goodness she saw in Yuri, despite all of the glaring red flags.

She figured when Felix came to her with a changed mind from his earlier stance on the matter of the Chalice and this mission, it was because he was trying to counter Hubert—the  _ real _ villain here, the devil they know. But perhaps it was all just a charade, as Hubert claimed it to be. That Yuri strung everyone along, and Felix helped an old friend. A friend that he shares a long history with, one that exceeds any history that  _ she _ and him share in another life that Felix doesn’t even  _ remember _ . Perhaps Hubert was right the entire time… about all of this.

_ I read all of this… very wrong... _

“Why did I listen to him?” she wails, her voice cracking as she swings her blade with little finesse and all rage and raw emotion. “To  _ you?!” _

Yuri easily counters each strike—lithely moving around Byleth like a raven circles its prey, as she aggressively tries to land a killing blow. Each time she comes a little closer to plunging the Sword between his ribs, but he is just a breath faster than her—almost if  _ he _ was the one who had premonition, and not her. Moisture pricks at the corners of her eyes out of sheer frustration. Byleth knows this fighting style isn’t like her, isn’t anything that her father taught her or that she instructs her students. It’s aggressive and powerful, but exhausting and imprecise—the cost of being fueled by indignation and vengeance.

Her movements grow slower by slivers of seconds as her muscles burn and the storm rages inside of her—and while that might still be enough to best any other opponent, one as skilled as Yuri is able to capitalize on the wavering flurry of her attacks. Parrying one of her strikes, he pivots out of her way, allowing Byleth to continue on her trajectory and stumble forward. To add further insult, he shoves her once more, ensuring that she topples to the ground in a heap.

_ Pathetic, _ she thinks as she pushes herself up on the palms of her hands. Her arms tremble as she forces herself into a kneeling position. Yuri looks down at her pitifully—this entire time, even now, not once raising his blade to make any real attempt at striking her.

“After all we’ve been through together, I would think you'd have just a bit more faith in me,” he says, uncharacteristically forlorn. Yuri places his rapier back on his hip before reaching out his hand to her, an offer to help her up. Byleth looks at him angrily—incredulously.  _ The audacity this man has to mock me when he hasn’t the gall to kill me like he will his friends. _

Yet still, he looks down at her as if patiently awaiting for her to take his hand. Byleth grimaces, spitting a mouthful of blood out on the ground before him. A refusal to surrender or cooperate. His expression shifts into one of regret as his hand drops to his side.

“Your silence speaks volumes…” he murmurs. “Guess this is the end of the niceties. It's all on you now, friend. I trust you with the rest.”

She watches as Yuri paces away, the Chalice in his hands. After everything, she lacks the strength to maintain the fracture in time, so with an exhausted exhale, the ultraviolet shards knit back together around her. Byleth’s ears ring loudly as everything is set again into motion, Yuri throwing one last glance in her direction before warping away with Aelfric. The three dark mages warp away the other Ashen Wolves, too, leaving Byleth alone as the flames flicker in the dying light.

There’s a dampness on her cheeks, she realizes, and she tiredly rubs the moisture away with her fingertips. She hears her students shouting, footsteps crunching across dried grass, and the metallic clink of weaponry. The heat from the fire is oppressive, and it’s so bright—too bright. Thankfully, someone kneels beside her, blocking the glow from the flames so she doesn’t have to squint.

Hand flat on her back, another possessively grabbing one of her own hands. _ Dimitri. _ “Are you injured?” he asks, his tone a little more commanding than usual. He turns over her hand in his gloved one, inspecting it for injury. She looks up at him, and his expression looks… pained. The soft leather of his gloves brushes over her chin which is starting to bloom with yellow and blue bruising.

Dimitri helps her to her feet before placing both hands on her shoulders. He surveys her front intently for blood, cuts, or tears that could indicate a stab or gash. “Did he hurt you? If if he  _ dared _ to lay a finger on you—”

“He didn’t,” she murmurs. Sure, she bit her tongue after Yuri knocked her around, but he never raised his sword to strike her. He only disarmed her, and in a brief moment of reflection, she realizes it was almost like he was careful to do _only that._ He even extended a hand to her at the end— _hardly an act of peace,_ she thinks darkly. _An invitation to join him in his treachery?_ _Did he_ really _expect me to join him and Aelfric and the Flame Emperor, who they’re clearly working with?_

Byleth’s mind is reeling. She pulls away from Dimitri suddenly, overwhelmed with the urge to vomit or maybe to faint.

_ But Hubert worked actively against this entire plot… the entire time, right up until Constance was ripped from his arms,  _ the realization dawning on her.  _ He killed one of Edelgard’s own generals, for Seiros’ sake. _

“This isn’t a time to joke around,” Felix protests. He approaches Byleth and touches her shoulder lightly. “Surely you suffered a wound—”

She jerks away from his touch.

_ Who is friend, and who is foe? _

  
  


* * *

Byleth leads the way into the archbishop’s audience chamber, pushing through the heavy wooden doors without as much as a knock. The knight standing guard outside the door tries to protest, but she all but shoves him aside, intent on speaking with Lady Rhea immediately. Her students follow behind her, Hilda and Linhardt struggling to keep up with Byleth’s fervent pace back to the monastery.

“Professor,” Rhea says, rising from her seat. Her face quickly drains of all color seeing the state of Byleth and her students—and the very clearly absent Ashen Wolves.

Byleth is rough for wear, dirt-stained clothes and a bruise on her chin and jaw that she refused to let Linhardt heal. The students are mostly unharmed, though dishevelled from the exchange turned skirmish.

She didn’t give a damn if she was interrupting anything when she marched into the chamber, but she is surprised to see her father there. Seteth is present as well, though that is typical for him. Both of them turn around to face her and the students—her father’s face written with concern.

“Kiddo, what’s wrong? Where’s Aelfric?” he asks her, his brown eyes focused on her.

When she looks up at her father, she finds herself unable to speak—every word dying in the back of her throat. Her face burns with shame at her failure. She knows nothing of Aelfric’s whereabouts because of her ineptitude and her blind faith in him, Yuri, and Felix. All she knows is that the Chalice is gone and Hapi, Constance, and Balthus are all in danger because of her… and she is unaccustomed to speaking to her father about defeat on the field of battle—especially in one-on-one combat where she let her opponent escape.

“It was a trap,” Felix speaks up in her stead. Byleth is so lost in her own thoughts and guilt pooling in her stomach that she doesn’t realize that the swordsman is standing right beside her. It’s something that she has come to expect—Felix as her right hand through all. But today it’s different—it feels wrong. “Aelfric and Yuri were working with the dark mages all along. They stole the Chalice—”

“So you knew, then?” Byleth hisses under her breath, just low enough for him to hear. She doesn’t even recognize her own voice—perhaps because she never thought that she’d ever utter a doubt about the man beside her.

Until now.

_I thought you were my truest ally. But promises made in another life mean nothing in this one, I suppose,_ she thinks bitterly. Just yesterday, Felix persuaded her to reconsider her course of action alongside Hubert, Claude, and _Dimitri_ —of all people—only to turn around this morning and change his mind drastically when he called to meet with her in private. Despite this bizarre change in his behavior, Byleth trusted Felix as she always has… heeding his advice and jumping in with both feet. 

And  _ now  _ look where they are—no Chalice, no Wolves. They walked right into a trap—one that  _ Felix anticipated  _ was coming, yet advised her to run into anyway. And she was foolish enough to trust his counsel.... if she can even call it that.

_ Was it dishonesty? _ she wonders crossly, her mind grasping for some thread of logic or rationale for why Felix would give her such disastrous advice despite having known better.  _ Certainly it couldn’t have been a mistake with how abruptly he changed his stance—it had to have been an intentional misdirection. Was he more loyal to Yuri this entire time? Right under my nose? _

Felix pauses in his report to her father and Lady Rhea, tilting his chin down to look over at her. He furrows his brow slightly before whispering back, “No, I—”

_ “Don’t,” _ she cuts him off again, and this time it's a warning. Byleth’s eyes squint shut as her arms stiffen at her sides. “Don’t lie to me again.”

He shakes his head, his expression softening in surprise. “Professor, I would  _ never  _ lie—”

“This is not the time to argue,” Hubert interjects fiercely, stepping forward. The tall mage’s presence quiets both Byleth and Felix as he bows respectfully—albeit begrudgingly—to Lady Rhea. “Archbishop, the fact is that Aelfric has the Chalice and the four Ashen Wolves—who each own the crests of the Four Apostles, according to Linhardt’s research.”

“What research?” Rhea asks sharply.

Her green eyes are scrutinizing, falling upon Linhardt who clasps his hands behind his back and grimaces. Byleth knows he’s less than pleased about all of this—and likely with her, as well. He has been since Felix revealed that she helped him and Yuri steal that Relic, and now with Yuri’s betrayal… she’s certain Linhardt’s attitude toward her has only depreciated even more.

“After piecing together several texts that I found in Abyss, it was easy to determine the identities of the Apostles. It was the Ashen Wolves who confessed to bearing their crests,” Linhardt says grimly. “They were each instructed to keep the identities of their crests secret from the world—even the Empire… even the  _ Church.” _

Rhea stiffens. “You must be mistaken—”

“I’m afraid we are not. We believe the Ashen Wolves were kidnapped for the same reason Flayn and Annette were kidnapped last moon,” Hubert adds, looking pointedly at Seteth this time. A long beat of silence fills the audience chamber—one could hear a pin drop on the polished stone floors. 

“You told me the Chalice was useless without the Four Apostles,” Byleth murmurs finally. Her eyes are lowered to the floor, but she’s addressing Lady Rhea, and she knows the archbishop is listening true to her words. “Is it  _ still _ as useless now?”

Lady Rhea hesitates before speaking, folding her hands meekly in front of her. “If what you claim is true, then no,” she admits reluctantly. “With the Ashen Wolves, the Chalice can be used to carry out the Rite of Rising. Once the blood of the four is poured upon the Chalice, its true power can be harnessed.”

Byleth’s stomach drops. Her father, though, scratches the back of his head. “What  _ exactly  _ is that true power?” he asks Rhea skeptically.

“We've heard it has the power to resurrect life, but that can't be true... can it?” Claude chimes in.

“The Chalice is a holy artifact, created by the goddess herself,” Rhea says carefully, maintaining a somber expression. She doesn’t meet anyone’s gaze—not even Seteth’s or her father’s. “It serves to restore a physical form that was previously lost to this world.”

“So those wild tales  _ are  _ true,” Hilda gasps. “It really  _ can _ bring someone back to life.”

“Not exactly,” Seteth swiftly interjects into the whispers that have now broken out among the group of students. His words are measured and clipped—Byleth can tell from his body language that he’s showing restraint and is tightening his jaw to remain as stoic as possible in his speech. “It can breathe life into a body, but it cannot return a spirit that has already departed. Ultimately, it is a tool to return the goddess to her physical form. Her spirit is omnipresent, but her flesh is no more.”

He looks to Rhea on his right, at her head bowed and eyes shut. It looks like she’s in solemn prayer. “Such incredible power is truly awe inspiring—yet  _ extremely  _ dangerous,” Seteth continues.

Finally, the archbishop raises her head to look at the group. She nods in agreement with Seteth. “For this reason, the Four Apostles were never intended to pass down their Crests. This gathering should never have been possible…”

“And we’re expected to believe Aelfric is at the center of this mess?” Jeralt inquires abruptly, folding his arms across his chest.

“I saw with my own eyes,” Byleth confirms, shooting her father a grim look.

Jeralt’s brow knits together as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “But why  _ Aelfric? _ What could he possibly use it for?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Rhea, sounding almost like a gasp. It causes everyone in the room to look up at her. Her expression is resolved now, her lips pressed tightly together and determination practically glowing in those green eyes of hers. “Jeralt—find Alois and a few other Knights to lead a search party for Aelfric outside the monastery,” she commands, motioning to him. “They must not have gone far.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I'll see to it,” Jeralt says with a curt bow. As he pivots to leave, he must catch Byleth’s troubled expression as he stops and claps a hand on her left shoulder. He reassures her, “Don’t worry, kid. We got it from here.”

Byleth nods shakily—though it’s an agreement that she cannot uphold. How can she _not_ worry? It's _impossible_ for her not to. She, who has seen the future, couldn’t have foreseen this. Her breathing becomes more shallow, and she’s not sure if she is supposed to be angry or afraid… It’s like she’s standing at a fork in the road in an unknown land, not knowing which turn to take. Unsure if she should retreat, or draw her sword and fight.

“Kid?” her father asks her.

But it’s not like she can fight her enemies anyway—she doesn’t know where they are. Or  _ who _ they are, for that matter.  _ Hubert, Felix, Edelgard… _ her head pounds at the thought of it. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. Would Felix really mislead her like this? Perhaps it’s best to not trust anyone at all—if she only kept to herself since pulsing back here, she wouldn’t be standing here right now in this predicament.

“Professor?”

She looks down at her hand, half-expecting there to be blood smeared across her pale skin. The sight of it is too blurry for her to tell, though. She blinks ahead at Lady Rhea and Seteth and her father. They’re out of focus, too. She can make out the white of Rhea’s dress and the lilies in her hair as blobs of ivory against a backdrop of pale green. Seteth is a figure of navy, her father’s brown tunic...  _ Maybe I’m crying, and that’s why? _ It’s become too much of a habit for her, lately—crying. 

When she’s frustrated or angry, fearful or longing… even in those rare moments when she’s filled to the brim with a fleeting happiness. Tears.  _ Embarrassing, really. _ She never used to be like this. What kind of mercenary has she become? Her father would scold her for becoming soft if he really knew how often she cried.

“Byleth?”

  
  


* * *

“Rhea, what is the meaning of this?” Seteth demands, closing the door to the alcove. “Such a thing cannot be possible. Those crests…”

_...should no longer exist, _ he thinks, unable to say the words aloud. To  _ her, _ at least. There wasn’t a whisper of the Four Apostles for nearly a millennium now—and all whispers of their bloodlines had ceased centuries ago. Seteth truly believed that Rhea had done away with four bloodlines—any and all reminders of her failed Rite of Rising. But now—right under her nose, no less.

“Why allow them to take the Chalice if there was  _ any  _ chance—”

“I never thought this could happen, Seteth,” the archbishop snaps, her forehead wrinkling with the frown she gives him. She lowers herself into the chair at her desk, steepling her fingers atop the woodgrain. “No one can feel as much regret as I do right now.”

Part of Seteth begins to doubt her claim of ignorance. Everything Rhea does is with intention, her need for control often a consequence of her extreme paranoia. He begins to suspect that she knew all along that their bloodlines persisted through the generations—only because she might need them again for another futile attempt at the Rite of Rising. He cannot accuse her of such things, of course. But the seed of doubt begins to grow into a twisting vine that he can’t shake free from.

“Leclerc and Albrecht were both students enrolled at the Academy—and Miss von Nuvelle applied two years ago,” he recounts. “The fourth was taken prisoner by the Knights only a few months ago. How did you not know of their crests?”

“I did not,” Rhea bites back. She wears a scowl on her face as she regards Seteth with a wounded expression. “If we had confirmation of their crests—lost crests to this generation—there would have been news of such a discovery. But instead…”

“...we were all unaware. Von Hevring stated the four were instructed to keep their crests hidden. By their families?”

Rhea gives a tense nod. “Yes, perhaps. If their bloodlines carried on in secret,” she muses.  _ Their only option for existing at all was in secret, _ he thinks dourly.  _ Because you invalidated their place in this realm as a failure, as unworthy of life and happiness. Because the very Church that exonerates Her wiped away any and all traces of Her childrens’ existence, and theirs by extension. _

“And by Aelfric, too, it would seem. He did gather the four of them together in Abyss,” Seteth adds dryly. To think that his memory of Aelfric pleading for Yuri and the prisoner girl to be spared, of Aelfric advocating for the downtrodden and misplaced humans of Abyss, is now tainted by the realization that he had bigger schemes all along... “Why would Aelfric turn down such a dark path?”

“I do not know,” she offers weakly. Seteth knows her well enough by now that based on her tone, she has at least  _ some  _ inkling of the cardinal’s intentions. Whether her suppositions are too sinister to speak aloud or she has some other reason to be secretive, he cannot say.

He decides to take a risk and press further for an answer. He knows that she’s withholding  _ something  _ from him, as she does so often with the other Church officials and even him from time to time.

“If you know something, you ought to say it, Rhea. It is me you are speaking with—not the Knights, not the students. Those four children will die if we do nothing now—and if you knew something to prevent that fate, their blood is on your hands—”

“If that is their fate, it will be the will of the  _ goddess,” _ she interrupts sharply. “Please, leave my office. See to it that any remaining Knights are searching the monastery for Aelfric.”

Seteth neglects even a bow in her direction as he moves toward the door. Clutching the iron handle, the coolness pressing into his palm, he hesitates. Pivoting on his heel, he turns to half-look back at Rhea.

“Tell me—do you truly believe it is Her will that we are in this predicament? Because you are foolish if you fail to acknowledge that it has been  _ your  _ will all along,” he rebukes her frigidly. Seteth gets in the last word—this time, at least. Decorum be damned. “If there is any remorse left in you, Rhea, I trust you will join us in the search for Aelfric. Before history repeats itself.”

  
  
  


* * *

“You always visit at the most unexpected times,” a voice says from behind a book, eyebrows raised in surprise.

The tome lowers to reveal a round face, kind and smiling as warm as the fireplace crackling at the back of the room. Her eyes are as gentle as her voice, a familiar beryl gaze, doe-like and downturned at the corners as she regards Byleth from over the pages.

Byleth shifts in her chair, realizing that she and the woman are both seated in the yellow upholstered chairs of the common room. Snow falls prettily outside the stained glass windows, hidden partially behind the heavy drapes that keep the warmth in.  _ Wintertime already?  _ she wonders inwardly _. _ On the chestnut tea table, there’s a small tea set with a singular cup, painted delicately with pink and blue flowers

The woman must notice Byleth staring at the tea set, because she apologises. “I’m so sorry—had I known I’d see you, I’d have brought two teacups instead of just one,” she tells Byleth. But her frown quickly curves into a quiet smile. “Usually when I read in here, it’s just me. No one even comes down this corridor because it's so difficult for the cardinals to travel this time of year.”

Byleth nods, glancing around the room and out into the empty hallway.

“I came here to read, but I’d be happy to talk with you instead,” the woman continues. “I know we talk often as it is, but it’s just different when you’re here in front of me and I can actually see you.”

“We’ve spoken before?” Byleth asks her. The woman looks familiar, but she cannot understand why exactly. Perhaps they had met before? But Byleth can’t quite place a finger on where she recognizes her from. Her hair, her eyes, the lilt of her voice… they all carry a certain comfort and ease—almost as if she had lived this very moment once before.

“I guess you’ve come here to humor me today,” the woman laughs, covering her mouth delicately with her hand. “We speak all of the time, Sothis.”

_ Sothis? The goddess? _

Byleth blinks dumbly back at her, but it’s like space between their two chairs begins to grow as her vision tunnels. _ Did I hear her correctly? _ she wonders, her mind reeling for the right way to respond to this strange woman.  _ Who is this lady, anyway? _

“I’m not Sothis,” she tells her as lightheartedly as she can manage, shaking her head. “You must be mistaken. My name is Byleth. Byleth Eisner.”

The woman’s lips stretch into a wide smile as she giggles again, this time rising to her feet. She places her book page side down on the seat of her chair, laughing all the while. “You certainly have a sense of humor today, Sothis,” she grins. When she turns back around to face Byleth, the woman smooths her hands over the front of her dress, revealing a very pregnant figure. She rests both hands tenderly on the swell of her belly.

“Little Byleth isn’t here yet for another moon.”

The woman steps over to her, swaying slightly as she does. Reaching down, she curls her hand around Byleth’s fingers, holding them fondly within her own. Her palm isn’t as warm as she would have guessed—though it’s likely due to the chill in the room from the season. 

Suddenly there’s hot tears rolling down Byleth’s cheeks, and she doesn’t know why. She tries to blink them away, but they just keep coming—a wave of sorrow and longing from depths that she didn’t know existed. The woman frowns again, and lifts her other hand to wipe them away with her thumb. Byleth leans into the touch, finding it soothing—it's as if she forgets that she doesn’t know this woman at all.

“I—” Byleth starts, her voice cracking. “I-I don’t know why…”

“Shh,” the woman whispers back, stroking Byleth’s hair gently. “It’s okay to cry, Sothis. Everything will be alright.”

  
  


* * *

Byleth’s eyes snap open and her hands fly to her face, her fingertips pressing against the tears there. The glow of the fire is gone and so are the yellow-upholstered chairs. Her eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness around her, the only light coming from a flicker of a few candles.

“You’re awake?” someone speaks beside her. She sits up with a jolt, startled by someone so close to her. She is in too much of a panic to really give attention to who or what’s in front of her, but she begins desperately trying to kick her legs free from the covers.

A pair of strong hands clasp onto her wrists, holding them firmly in place on her lap. “Shh, it’s me,” the voice insists again. Sucking in a deep breath, she sees blonde fringe in front of blue eyes. As the familiar face comes into focus, she begins to settle.  _ He’s always here, isn’t he?  _ she thinks fleetingly.  _ Aren’t I the one who should be there for him after a nightmare? _

She catches her breath and turns her forearms in Dimitri’s hands, his hold relaxing enough so that she can slide her palms down the underside of his gauntlets so that she can curl her hands into his. Their fingers thread together and she lets her gaze wander over his shoulder. The shelves of jarred herbs and concoctions and the row of empty cots confirm that she is in the infirmary yet again. How  _ exactly _ she got here, she’s uncertain—but there’s a more pressing issue on her mind.

“Did they find him?” she asks Dimitri, tilting her chin to look up at him.

“Aelfric? No,” he replies, shaking his head.

Immediately, Byleth starts searching through the bedding in a frenzy, looking for her Sword and belongings. _ Then what are we  _ doing _ here? There isn’t a moment to waste sitting here in the infirmary as long as Aelfric and Yuri are still out there,  _ she thinks as the urgency is renewed inside her. Dimitri, however, captures one of her arms in an iron grip once more. She struggles against it, her feet sliding to the floor as she pulls herself into a seated position on the cot.

He pulls her toward him, his other hand coming to rest against her cheek. “Byleth, please, wait a moment,” he tries to reason with her, but she twists her head away from him.

“I failed,” she groans, the tears threatening to fall again—this time out of burning shame and frustration at him trying to stop her from rectifying her mistakes. “I  _ failed, _ Dimitri. I need to fix this.”

Byleth tries to yank her hand free from Dimitri, but she’s reminded that he is far stronger than she. He looks at her sadly, his voice and expression gentle despite the unyielding hold he has on her, keeping her in place on the cot. “Then let us help you—”

A pair of footsteps echo into the infirmary behind her, and Byleth cranes her neck to look over at the door. Felix and Hilda walk into the room together, interrupting Dimitri’s plea and startling all of them, including Ignatz who was quietly refilling vulneraries in the corner of the room the entire time.

“G-guys, you all really should not be here,” he squeaks, nearly dropping a bottle in the process.

“Well you’re gonna be glad because we’re leaving,” Felix says gruffly, pushing past him as he makes his way over to Byleth’s cot. He doesn’t make eye contact with her, and to be fair, she doesn’t meet his eyes either. The sting of betrayal is still there, still raw from what can only have been a few hours ago. Felix tosses the Sword of the Creator down on the end of the cot, and Dimitri releases Byleth’s arm for her to be able to grab it.

She stands, letting the covers fall in a heap on the floor. As she places the Sword back on her hip, Dimitri hands her her cloak.

“Wait, I’ll get in trouble!” Ignatz protests again, a little more assertive this time. Byleth looks over at the spectacled boy, a pang of guilt striking her at the reminder that he very well could sit in detention if she disobeys Maneula’s orders. And while her guilt won't stop her in this instance, it doesn't prevent her from feeling bad about it. The young man is only doing his job, after all—blissfully unaware of the happenings underground and at the chapel ruins.

“The Professor isn’t ready for discharge until morning—”

Hilda taps her foot with impatience, sighing exasperatedly. “Hey, can we, like, hurry up?” she prompts. “Hubert is getting all  _ cranky, _ and there’s more people out on patrol tonight.”

“Wait, where are we going?” Byleth asks, choosing to turn to Dimitri instead of Felix. She’s not ready to speak with the swordsman yet, away—and she doesn’t have good reason to trust anything he says right now, too.

“We thought perhaps they might be in the Goddess Tower or the Cathedral—”

“The Holy Mausoleum,” Byleth cuts him off in a whisper, her eyes widening in her epiphany. Instead of looking back up at Dimitri, she instead looks intently at Felix. The swordsman only catches her gaze for a split-second before averting his eyes. Byleth’s brow furrows as she recollects her last encounter with the leader of the Ashen Wolves in the underground classroom. “Yuri asked me to meet him there at midnight tonight. He called it—”

“A date,” Felix completes her sentence, much to her surprise. She nods wordlessly in agreement, an insistent feeling of trepidation prickling up the backs of her arms and neck. She had thought Yuri’s proposition had been foolish yesterday evening—a waste of a moment he had stolen away for them both. But Felix had known of his solicitation as well.  _ Strange. _

“Yes, a date,” she nods back.  _ I really did read this all wrong, didn’t I? _

Dimitri coughs, his ears turning red. “W-what?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly.

_ “Guys, _ hurry up!” Hilda whines, rolling her eyes. She hoists her axe onto one of her shoulders as he places her other hand on her hip—stepping to the side of the door frame as she waves the three of them out to meet the others.

  
  


* * *

When the spell is finally lifted from her, Constance gasps for air like she’s desperately seeking a final breath before diving deep into the Albinean Sea. Her throat burns with the remnants of magic, and she coughs like Balthus does after smoking one his black market Almyran cigars. Her little fit of coughing rouses him as she feels him begin to stir and struggle against his binds next to her.

She leans forward as much as she can without falling over to look for Hapi. Peering around Balthus, she can see a head of fiery red hair slumped against the wall. Unlike her and him, Hapi appears to still be unconscious. Constance can spy a smear of blood on her temple, pieces of her hair sticking to it. Worry seizes her the more seconds that pass without Hapi moving.

“Hapi,” she hisses, trying to keep her voice down. She can see shadows of moving figures across the chamber they’re in, their footsteps echoing loudly. The last thing she wants to do is attract attention to their captors unnecessarily. There’s little light down here and it’s positively frigid, so she deduces that they’re underground. But the little she  _ can  _ detect of her surroundings, this place looks nothing like Abyss.

“Hey! Balthus,” she rocks herself over to bump into him with her shoulder, cringing at how the magical bindings begin to sting at the bare flesh around her wrists. He tucks his chin to his chest to look down at her. “Check on Hapi. I am afraid she is—”

The request wilts on her tongue as the sound of someone clearing their throat cuts her off, footsteps increasing in tempo and volume as they approach the three of them. A hem of crimson robes stops right before Hapi, and the dark mage bends down to grab her chin in a gloved hand. Behind their beaked mask, the mage appears to inspect Hapi before letting go, allowing her head to roll to the side against the wall she’s propped against.

“She’s breathing,” the mage remarks, their tone impersonal and unbothered. “No need for you to get worked up.”

Constance can barely suppress a snort at the mage’s flippant remarks. The boldness they have—the absolute _ nerve _ to order  _ her  _ to calm herself? As if they aren’t the ones who captured them and tied them up like livestock in the first place!

“Finally, you're all awake,” a familiar voice chirps. “Well,  _ almost  _ all of you. Good morning, sleepyheads. Or a good evening, rather? Can’t quite tell down here.”

_ Ah, the rat of Abyss also has the  _ audacity  _ to stand here and speak down to us, even now. _

“Yuri!” she snaps at him, her voice still hoarse from the Silence spell. “You scoundrel! You are unfit to speak to us, liar that you are!”

He rolls his eyes at her, folding his arms across his chest. “Yeah, yeah, liar, blah-blah. Nothing I haven't heard before,” he jeers in a flat tone. “If you’d rather me leave, then I’m sure  _ these  _ guys can keep you company instead.” Yuri motions to the dark mages milling about behind him, shuffling armfuls of items about the dimly lit room.

Constance swallows and it’s painful, the gravity of her present situation finally hitting her. Hubert had warned her… and as she sees the masked mages work silently yet diligently behind Yuri, their threat is much more tangible.  _ Has Yuri no heart? Surely he must know their plans, _ she tells herself, tugging more forcefully on the binding spell. She steals another glance over at Hapi who is still unconscious.  _ Has he not a single morsel of goodness left in him to even  _ care  _ about Hapi’s state? About  _ all  _ of our fates?  _

“Look, pal, you’re not going anywhere without givin’ us some answers,'' Balthus snarls at him. “What exactly are you trying to accomplish here? Where's Aelfric? And what the  _ hell  _ are you doin’ working with  _ them?” _

“Questions, questions. You're wearing me out, Balthus. Fine, then,” Yuri tuts with a wave of his hand. He crouches down, resting his elbows on his knees as he brings himself down to their level. “Say, I'll lay it out for you.  _ Real  _ simple, so you can understand.”

Balthus grits his teeth and growls, his frame lurching forward with a jerk. Had his fists not been bound, Constance is positive that one of them would have punched the condescending smirk off of Yuri’s face.

“Aelfric intends to reenact the Rite of Rising. He's preparing everything as we speak,” Yuri explains, waving behind him. “By offering up the blood of the Four Apostles in the Chalice, you can bring someone back to life, apparently. Saint Seiros performed the ritual 995 years ago, but not enough blood was given up, so the ritual was a bust. No clue what happened after that. That's what Aelfric concluded after scouring the records, anyway.”

“What do y’mean not enough blood?” Balthus contends with a questioning glare.

Fear crushes Constance’s heart tightly in its grasp—so much so that it  _ hurts  _ her, radiating up into her jaw and down her arms like pins and needles. The last time she felt this sort of terror was when armies raided the streets of Nuvelle many years ago now.

It’s  _ exactly  _ as Hubert theorized—their crested blood is about to be stolen from them for whatever nefarious deeds they have planned—thankfully, perhaps, Hubert abstained from describing his theories on what those deeds might be. _ Bringing someone back to life?  _ Goddess  _ knows what atrocities they plan on bringing forth with magic of that magnitude. _

“He  _ means  _ to say that they intend to drain our blood—to  _ kill  _ us,” Constance hisses. “Such an act would be unforgivable! A sin  _ most  _ grievous!”

Yuri scoffs. “Some rise by sin while others fall by virtue, Constance. Don’t tell me you really are naive enough to believe the Goddess governs us on something as arbitrary as sin?”

He straightens up and brushes off the front of his jacket. Constance has no reply for him, her eyes starting to water. Despite the Silence spell wearing off, she’s unable to cast any magic with her hands immobilized behind her. She feels utterly pathetic and helpless, a harrowing echo from her past that clings to her like fog on carriage glass. Usually she’s more indignant than this.

“The  _ Four?  _ That means you, too, pal,” Balthus interrupts, still defiantly struggling to break free. “You wanna die, is that it?  _ Fine. _ I'll kill you myself. I thought we were _ brothers. _ But turns out you’re nothin’ but a  _ coward  _ who can’t face me fist to fist.”

_ “Shut it,” _ Yuri seethes through a grimace. His voice drops to a lower timbre. “I've lived through hell and worse. After clawing my way here, you really think I want to die?”

Constance shakes her head.  _ This makes hardly any sense. _ “Then pray tell, Yuri… why throw your life away for—”

Yuri begins to shush her with a crinkle of his brow and pursed lips, but she is interrupted instead by Aelfric. Her eyes widen as she looks up at him—not out of awe, like she had for the longest time. No, she has not a single ounce of admiration left for the man who stands before her… the  _ monster  _ that had groomed and cared for the lot of them for so long, only to betray them for  _ what? _

“It would seem that you want to be punished severely, Yuri,” he utters, looming next to his shoulder. Yuri laughs thinly in response.

“That supposed to be some sort of threat? There's not much you can do to me that hasn't already been done,” he notes despondently.

“Indeed,” Aelfric agrees. He waves over a pair of dark mages who grab onto Yuri’s arms, twisting them behind his back, forcing him to his knees like the others. Yuri manages to free an arm for a brief moment, just long enough to fumble with a dagger in his cloak. It’s a futile attempt, though, as the metal clatters to the stone floor as one of the mages captures the pale skin of his wrist, branding it with dark magic.

Constance sees the dampness begin to gather at the corners of Yuri’s eyes as he finches uncomfortably at their touch. The mages shuffle about him, yanking up the sleeve of his jacket and examining the crease of his arm carefully from behind their beaked masks. Others arrive, procuring various instruments—silver tubing and bits, hoses that appear to be made of a leathery substance—soft and malleable. She has to avert her eyes, though, when a large metallic needle punctures the skin on the inside of Yuri’s arm. He swallows a yelp, jerking away from it immediately, though this causes a swell of blood to weep from the puncture site. The mages withdraw the needle, only to hold him down firmly and stab him again—not even bothering to heal the initial wound.

The point stuck into Yuri’s arm is attached to a larger metallic bit, which in turn is fastened to a length of that odd-looking hose. It quickly flushes with crimson. Constance’s stomach almost upends itself, but she bites the inside of her lip and tucks her chin into her left shoulder.

She had heard of such things before, back when she attended the Royal School of Sorcery. There were rumors back then of students being expelled for these sorts of clandestine experiments involving pig bladders and goat intestine, quills and fountain pen nibs… all as a means to drain or infuse one’s blood for alchemical purposes or for more rapid healing… though instead, it often lead to feverish sickness and oftentimes instantaneous death. No one knew  _ why, _ exactly—the Royal School said that such practices were from lands beyond Fódlan, and thus barbaric and against the goddess’ will.

Constance had never known anyone to attempt such experimentation, but such tales were the kindling for many of her nightmares during her studies there. It was easy, back then, to write such tales off as horror stories… the ones found in anthologies tucked away on bookshelves. But alas, she’s watching scenes from those very rumors play out before her now—the sickening, crushing weight of reality more redoubtable than that of any unpleasant dream.

As Yuri’s blood drains into the tubing, the mages keep him physically restrained to prevent him from disturbing the process. Aelfric paces forward so that he towers over the lavender-haired man. He places a hand on Yuri’s cheek—a gesture that would be almost fatherly if it weren’t for the knavish smile on his face.

“You took wing from the mud into which you were born, and rose to  _ such  _ great heights,” he remarks, equally as wise as he is wicked. “To break  _ your  _ spirit would take far too much effort. Though, if I must, I will kill your  _ mother  _ in addition to your dear friends.”

Yuri mutters something under his breath, but it’s inaudible to Constance. Aelfric steps back and motions to Hapi, who is still unmoving beside Balthus.

“She will be next. Should be easier for you, since there won’t be a struggle,” he orders the mages. “Just ensure she remains unconscious. The ritual cannot afford to have any…  _ interruptions.” _

One of them grabs onto Hapi from under her arms, dragging her limp body across the floor and away from Balthus who is growing increasingly agitated. Balthus isn’t particularly talented in magic… at least enough to know that this restraint spell won’t be dispelled through anything other than magical means. Despite that, though, he continues to contest the glowing purple tethers on his wrists.

“Don’t lay a hand on her,” he growls at the mages who are already repeating the same process that they did with Yuri. “Or I  _ swear  _ to Seiros—”

“You are quite the nuisance, aren’t you?” one of the mages interrupts, turning the beaked tip of their mask to face him. “Besides, your little friend here has gone through much worse before.” They turn back to Hapi, watching with a sickening sort of fondness as her blood too begins to drain through whatever impious contraption they have contrived from the flames below. 

“Your blood will pour forth, filling the Chalice,” Aelfric cants as both Constance and Balthus are separated from each other and affixed with silver needles of their own. Constance feels algor spread throughout her body, starting at her toes and fingertips and creeping slowly up each limb. Her heart begins racing even faster than before—fear and anxiety spiking as she looks over at Hapi who’s starting to shiver.

“You… really are a fool,” Yuri laughs weakly. He’s shuddering, too, but the fire in his eyes is still burning brightly.

“But aren’t  _ you _ the fool, Yuri?” Aelfric replies mirthfully. “After all, it was you who kept me abreast of all the Ashen Wolves' movements. As recompense for being such a  _ good student _ of my flock, I will gladly hear any final words from you.”

Yuri smirks, not even bothering to suppress a chuckle. “If you knew me at all, you'd know these won't be my final words. I'm simply... biding my time.”

“Still clinging to hope, are we? Now, now… do not be mistaken. This is the end. And, a beginning, thanks to you.”

“A beginning…” Yuri murmurs.

The sound of bells fills the chamber, resonating off the stone walls and floor and into Constance’s bones. The loudness of it startles everyone—it is almost like they are in the cathedral’s tower itself.  _ Are we near the chancel, perhaps? _ Constance thinks to herself.  _ Beneath it? _

“B-bells? This late at night?” Aelfric stammers, his face twisted up in confusion.

“Heh, can you hear that, Aelfric?” Yuri grins, raising his head to burn his intense gaze into the cardinal. “It’s the Beginning. The goddess’ descent. _ She's coming.”  
_  
  


* * *

Hubert has been in a shit mood all night. Not that Felix blames him or anything—the goddess-awful attitude of the Black Eagles mage is mostly his own doing. For today, at least. 

Felix knows he made a fatal error in judgement.  _ Worse  _ than the Lysithea and Ferdinand fiasco, and he still has yet to see the full scope of that debacle play out. Giving Yuri any time of day was downright  _ catastrophic. _

Sure, he really doesn’t know the Ashen Wolves that well. All he claims to know is that the Hapi girl can summon monsters and has a sense of humor drier than the food Annette or Flayn cooks up when they’re on kitchen duty… Balthus can fight pretty good, he’ll give him that… and Constance’s voice is kind of annoying but she seems like the one with the most sense out of the three of ‘em.

And while they’re no Sylvain or Byleth, Felix still… cares. At least enough that he doesn’t think they should  _ die  _ because of his foolish mistake.

If Byleth tries to strangle him or never spars or speaks with him ever again… he’ll hate it, but he’ll know it’s what he deserves. Hells, if the  _ Death Knight  _ shows up and impales him on that scythe of his, he’ll laugh at the absurd justice of it all.

But he’ll humor death only after Hapi, Balthus, and Constance are safe.

As far as Yuri goes… Felix’s stomach turns at the thought of that conniving dastard. While it strikes him as extremely odd... all of the stupid promises he made him swear up and down to keep… there’s no way he can tell all of that to Byleth now when she won’t even look at him without scorn in her eyes. Shit, he can’t even confide in the boar about anything because his ego’s still all bruised from hearing about Yuri’s request for a date with the Professor.

But he’s too simple-minded to consider what him and Byleth had back in the infirmary—that Yuri’s little date was actually a call for help the whole time.

He and Byleth pick the locks to the doors that lead down to the Holy Mausoleum, pushing them open wide for the group to begin their descent. After a few steps, Hubert is abruptly right beside him, causing his skeleton to nearly crawl out of his skin. Felix is not in the mood to be the target of Hubert’s grievances, so he tries to walk faster and out-pace the taller man.

“It’s almost as if you’ve done that before, Fraldarius,” he says, easily keeping up with him anyway. Felix misses a step and nearly tumbles down the rest of the way, but is able to recover at least somewhat gracefully.  _ Thank Seiros it’s dark in here,  _ he thinks to himself.

“Done what?” he asks flatly, doing his best to act blissfully ignorant.

“Break into the Mausoleum,” Hubert whispers.

Felix hums and plays dumb.  _ Of course Hubert would notice something like that, _ he grumbles inwardly.  _ Fucking creep. And it’s not like he’s not snaking about doing the same thing _ . “Hardly. Any idiot with half a brain can pick a lock,” he retorts. 

Thankfully, the bells tolling in the church tower above them interrupt their little conversation before Hubert has more things to complain about... or before Felix punches him in the face for his bad attitude and messed-up priorities. As they reach the foot of the massive stone staircase, the group sees a faint flicker of torchlight at the far end of the Mausoleum. When Felix squints enough, he can see dark mages moving about. There’s about a dozen or more of them at least. _ Fuck. _

With the wave of a hand, Hubert ignites all of the torches in the expansive of the underground crypt. The sudden brightness draws the attention of their enemy. And Aelfric, too, the humble and unassuming cardinal who stands over Yuri and the Ashen Wolves—based on the looks of it, the Wolves are subdued. Even Yuri.

Which suggests that he simply got tangled up in a plot of Aelfric’s design.  _ Not so meek after all, for an old monk _ , Felix thinks bitterly.

“I see. You were one step ahead of me all this time,” Aelfric says loudly enough for his voice to carry across the expanse of the huge chamber. He thought he was talking to Yuri, at first, but with the cardinal’s eyes locked on Byleth. “It matters not. The ritual has begun. There's no stopping it now. They will all die... just a bit longer.”

Felix’s hand curls tightly around the handle of his sword as he draws it and charges ahead. Hubert is there alongside him, and the boar, too. With blistering magic and furious lance, the two of them topple over half of the dark mages just between the two of them. The look in both of their eyes are the same—a perfect twinkle of rage and glee that’s  _ far  _ beyond what is acceptable for simply the call of duty or seeking vengeance. Felix calls it what it really is: bloodlust.

_ Revolting. _

His main priority is getting to the Wolves as quickly as possible. Aelfric flees from their vicinity once he sees Felix approach with his sword. He reaches Yuri first—mostly because he has words for him.

“What the  _ fuck  _ were you think—” he yells, but stops abruptly when he gets a closer look at him. He looks pale… more so than usual. His lips are starting to look grey. Felix also quickly realizes that his hands are bound by some immovable magic, and that there’s a foreign looking tube running from the crook of his elbow all the way up to where Seiros’ casket is on the stone platform.

“Wait, what is—”

“If you’re gonna help me you can pull the damned thing out,” Yuri snarks, his voice breathy against Felix’s temple as the swordsman kneels and places his weapon on the ground to get a closer look. “I’d do it myself, but as you can see— _ fuck, _ that hurts.”

Felix does as he is asked—he rips what appears to be a needle out of his arm. He blinks at the object for a second, his nose crinkled in disgust at whoever dreamt of this odd thing—but not for long, because the inside of Yuri’s elbow begins bleeding. “Shit, sorry,” he mutters. Improvising, he rolls down Yuri’s sleeve and uses the fabric to press against the wound to staunch the bleeding.

“I can forgive you,” Yuri says. The swordsman lifts his amber gaze to give Yuri a cold stare.

“Well, I won’t be as quick to forgive you,” he says once he’s certain the bleeding has slowed enough on Yuri’s arm. He yanks his jacket sleeve down to emphasize his point, and turns his attention to the glowing purple bindings. “Now tell me how to get rid of these.”

Yuri tips his head over to the dark mage by Seiro’s casket. “Pretty sure that’s who cast this spell on all of us,” he tells Felix. “Kill him, and the spell breaks.”

He nods at Yuri, picks up his blade, and approaches the mage in question. He makes quick work of the dastard, their body tumbling limply down the steps of the platform. Curiosity getting the best of him he inspects the lid of Seiro’s resting place… where those four tubes were leading to. He sees them pour not into the Chalice, but into some sort of magical tourbillon. He has never seen anything like it before… the blood undulating in this occult centrifuge right above the golden goblet. Steadily, thick and gelatinous crimson droplets fall into the goblet from the center of the vortex.

_ Saints… what in the goddess’ name— _

Yuri calls over to him, and Felix tears his attention away from  _ whatever-the-fuck _ that magical spinning thing is. He bounds down the tomb steps and joins Yuri in helping the other Wolves. Constance looks like she’s going to faint and Hapi seems to already have. Balthus cradles her head in his oversized hand as he lifts her up and carries her to Linhardt at the Mausoleum entrance.

Hubert sizzles the fuck out of a mage that tries to run up on Constance, who’s being helped up by Hilda. The boar and Byleth aren’t far behind, either; the Sword of the Creator glows in Byleth’s hand as she backs Aelfric into a metaphorical corner. There’s no place for him to run, now. There’s not a dark mage left in sight, and while that magical vortex persists, there’s no longer any blood flowing into it, so his little attempt at recreating the Rite of Rising is just another failure.

Despite that, he frantically runs up the steps and seizes the Chalice from atop Seiros’ coffin, the vortex collapsing in on itself and vanishing from sight. “Professor,” he pleads pathetically. “You would dare raise your sword against me? Your mother lies here, waiting for us. Waiting for you!”

An eerie silence fills the Mausoleum as Byleth hesitates. “My… mother?”

Aelfric nods wordlessly, and with a gentle swish of his hand, the heavy stone lid of Seiros’ tomb slides aside, revealing what is inside. Or rather… who.

It’s a woman who looks remarkably like Byleth—from her small frame to the teal hair that surrounds her head in a halo of waves, the fullness of her upper lip to the slope of her nose. Looking at the woman in that casket is… eerie. It’s like looking at Byleth. The thought makes Felix uneasy, and he has to look away.

“Don't you want her back?” Aelfric asks, speaking only to Byleth.

Instinctively, Felix takes a few steps up the platform toward her. He doesn’t expect her to care for anything he has to say, but knows he can’t just stand by and do and say nothing at all. Yuri said… Felix sucks in a breath. Yuri said…

“Don’t listen to him,” he shouts at her. Though she seems too perturbed by the sight of the woman in the sarcophagus to really hear what he said. She looks like she’s on the verge of crying or screaming, but Felix can’t be for certain.

Everyone’s standing in an awkward quietude—everything perfectly still as they watch Byleth and Aelfric’s exchange with baited breath. Finally, the Professor’s lip quivers and her brow knits together, her eyes never leaving the body laid out before her.

“My mother… died,” she whispers, “giving birth to me…”

Aelfric shakes his head manically. “But there is no room for doubt. I know her appearance better than anyone. This… is  _ her,” _ he insists. “Your mother, an upstanding nun who married Jeralt. She died 21 long years ago.”

The boar is the first to move; he’s not far from Byleth, but he continues up the steps next to her and rests a hand on the back of her shoulder. She doesn’t as much as flinch when he touches her. But instead of speaking some sense into Byleth, Dimitri looks to Aelfric with a scrutinizing expression. “You cannot expect us to believe that someone who died over two decades ago is still in such pristine condition—”

“But it is the truth! You see it with your very eyes, do you not?” Aelfric interrupts, gesturing excitedly. “It’s as though she remained untouched, even after all of these years… Perhaps her body differs from ours. Beautiful, ageless—perfectly preserved by some secret only she knows.”

Felix has had enough. He’s about to wretch from the shit leaving this man’s mouth. After everything he has done to them, the Wolves… to this poor woman. And he stands before Byleth taunting her like this… despicable.

“Dimitri is right, Byleth,” he urges her. “There is no way it is her—”

“No,” Byleth says brokenly, silencing him and casting the room into silence again. She still doesn’t tear her eyes from the woman’s face, but she shakes her head at him, he supposes. “No, this… this is the body I found.”

His stomach drops. This is the body that she and him had been looking for?

“She… she  _ called  _ to me then. It is her. I’ve seen her before… I—”

The look in her eyes begins to frighten Felix, and he climbs a few more steps and raises his voice. “What are you talking about? Snap out of it, By—”

“Whatever the case may be, it is strange, is it not?” Aelfric interrupts again. Felix wants nothing more than to march up to the top of the platform and grab Byleth by the shoulders to shake some sense into her—or better yet, to plunge his sword into Aelfric’s chest to shut him up. But it’s like each time he tries, his feet feel static and unmoving on the current step.

“It's been 10 long years since I found her. I came across her body, frozen in time, deep underground. I have worked tirelessly to solve the riddle of her death and bring her back to life,” the cardinal prattles on.

Felix tries to move again and put an end to the man’s ludicrous ramblings, but finds himself back on the same step.  _ Again. _ He looks over to Hubert, and he wears an expression similar to the one he’s sporting, he’s sure. It’s maddening, feeling stuck like this—unable to make any motion forward... almost as much as having to listen to Aelfric drone on and on, over and over.

_ Wait,  _ Felix pauses.  _ Is she...? _

“Halt, Aelfric!”

Everyone swivels around to face Lady Rhea—who stands alone. Not a single Knight accompanying her, not even Seteth.

Aelfric, on the other hand, switches from pleading with a near catatonic Byleth to shouting angrily across the Mausoleum at the archbishop. “Rhea! You are the cause of this!” he accuses, holding tight to the Chalice with one arm and motioning to the body in the casket with his other. “It was you who killed her! When she gave birth to a child who made no sound. What did you do to her, Rhea?  _ Tell me! _ Why does her body remain like this, but her spirit does not?”

Out of the corner of Felix’s eye, he notices Byleth lifting her head ever so slightly.

“I owe you no words on the matter,” Lady Rhea replies firmly. Her tone is far more measured than that of Aelfric’s hysterics. “But, I will tell you this… She made the choice to die, so that her child might _ live.  _ I respected her will, nothing more.”

Aelfric laughs like a true mad man, grimacing up to the heavens. “You expect me to believe you without question?!” he demands. “You can see her lying here before you, just as we last knew here… and yet you  _ owe no words. _ I am finished with you, Rhea.”

He looks wistfully at the woman lying in the casket… and at the Professor. “I will do what I must, and finish the ritual,” he promises. Her indigo eyes widen and begin to water, and it spurs Felix to try once more to do something—  _ anything _ to silence the cardinal and put an end to his derangement with the point of his sword. But as quick as he leap up the platform steps, he’s snapped back where he started.

“Aelfric—cease this futility at once. I  _ beg _ of you,” Rhea pleads. “The Chalice cannot return her soul, Aelfric. It is incapable of even returning the  _ body  _ to life.”

The cardinal scoffs at her. “Another one of your lies, Rhea. I don’t know what to believe from you anymore,” he says, scathing. He moves over the casket and places a hand on the crown of the woman’s head. “I will see this through. For _ Sitri… _ and for  _ you, _ Byleth.”

In a brilliant purple flash of light, Aelfric warps away with the Chalice and with the woman he called Sitri. Everyone turns to Lady Rhea for guidance, except Byleth. She tears away from Dimitri’s side and moves immediately to the now empty casket. Pressing her palm into the bottom of it where the body of the woman laid just moments ago, Felix can see her jaw tighten. He approaches her with kid gloves as everyone else is listening to Rhea’s commands and mobilizing.

As he stands beside her at the empty casket, he watches her open palm tighten into a fist. Felix feels… stuck again. Like everything is moving like molasses—every second feeling like three. Somehow, he manages to rest a hand on her arm before she can pulse back.

“Don’t,” he tells her. And this time, he knows it is sound advice. The sound catches her off-guard, and she jerks her head over to look at him with an alarmed expression. He offers a grimace in return, and her expression softens slightly before her gaze drops to the floor.  
  
  


* * *

Mercedes can’t seem to find sleep tonight. Maybe it’s the upcoming Battle of the Eagle and Lion weighing heavily on her mind—she has never been one for battle, real or pretend. Maybe it’s feelings of homesickness that are keeping her awake.

Or perhaps it’s the whispers surrounding the early curfew that was sprung upon her and the other students at dinnertime. From time to time, she’ll indulge in gossip. She knows she’s better off paying it no mind, but the rumors swirling about the Academy this evening are too intriguing for her to ignore.

Some people are saying the curfew is because the archbishop was to entertain noble guests for a secretive political rendezvous. Personally, she thinks instilling a curfew for such a meeting would be silly, given dukes have visited the monastery in the past with little fanfare. Another rumor that makes Mercedes wonder, however, is that grave political news broke out. With the Adrestian Emperor and Duke Riegan of the Alliance being quite old, and—according to her mother’s letters—the current regent back home in the Kingdom being quite the controversial figure… it wouldn’t be much of a surprise to anyone if illness or  _ worse, _ in the case of Duke Rufus, were to transpire.

But given the recent events at the monastery, Mercedes finds herself ruminating too much on  _ one  _ particular rumor—that the Death Knight has been spotted around the grounds again.

She cried when she heard what happened to Annie and Flayn last moon… cried even harder when she learned that it was the Death Knight to blame. She saw him on his black steed in the Holy Mausoleum moons ago, now… and something about the masked figure struck her as oddly familiar. It wasn’t until last moon that her suspicions were all but confirmed for her when the Death Knight returned… and tied inextricably to Professor Jeritza von Hrym after she and Felix found Maneula injured in his room. That, and his sudden disappearance from the monastery after that fateful afternoon.

She saw Professor Jeritza around the monastery a few times during his short-lived tenure, and each time she felt the same familiarity as she did when she saw the Death Knight. The former gave her hope… the latter filled her with dread.

If only she had listened to Edelgard when she told her not to go back underground that day. Had she stayed back in the infirmary, she wouldn’t have had the gut-wrenching confirmation of the Death Knight’s identity… of Professor Jeritza’s identity.

Mercedes never wanted them to be one in the same.

She prayed to the goddess each night that her intuition was wrong, that her eyes deceived her that day… all in the fleeting hope that maybe, just maybe the goddess’ divine will wouldn’t have been so bittersweet to reunite them under such circumstances. But in the end, it was fruitless. She knew the truth.

Now, her prayers sound different. Asking the goddess for his forgiveness… for her  _ own  _ forgiveness for leaving him with her mother all those years ago.

And it could be the reason why Mercedes finds herself back in the cathedral tonight, breaking curfew and slipping past all of the Knights and monks out on patrol tonight. Like most nights when sleep evades her, the cathedral is quiet and peaceful—bathed in moonlight that filters magnificently through the stained glass windows. Hands clasped and cardigan pulled snuggly around her shoulders, she offers her litany to the goddess and hopes that she can hear her.

The sound of the cathedral’s side doors swinging open interrupts her and nearly scares her half to death. She shouldn’t be in here. Quickly she slips out of her seat and ducks down behind the pew in front of her. It’s a group of people who enter the cathedral—multiple sets of footsteps across the marble floor. When Mercedes musters enough courage to peek over the wooden back of the pew, she sees the slightest glint of weaponry as the group rounds the corner toward the western alcove and out of her line of sight.

She can hear another door swing open—the door the Holy Mausoleum. Mercedes takes a shaky breath, trying to calm her nerves.  _ The Knights…  _ she figures. No one else is able to access the underground chamber outside of the Rite of Rebirth.  _ What are they doing here? _

That’s when the church bell begins to chime, startling her once more. Mercedes had never heard the bells this late at night. That, and a group of Knights heading down to the Mausoleum? It can only mean something bad. The campanile is attached to the left-side of the cathedral, and it is only accessible from outside. _Surely the Knights are outside the cathedral now, ringing the bells,_ she thinks to herself. _But they also went to the Mausoleum... that’s where the danger is, right?_ _It’d be best if I stayed put in here._ Her heart thrums in her chest as her hands tighten around the knitting of her cardigan.

Her thoughts begin to spiral. 

_ Is the Death Knight here? Are my friends safe back in the dormitories? What if the Knights find me here… will I be expelled? What will I tell my mother and stepfather? What is happening— _

A violet burst of light illuminates the nave, and Mercedes’ head swivels in that direction. She sees a man carrying someone else—he races up the center aisle and toward the chancel, very clearly out of breath. The man seems like he’s in such a panic—running from someone or something, goddess-forbid, that Mercedes stands up from the pew and steps out into the center aisle.

“Excuse me,” she calls out timidly, “are you okay?”

The man doesn't answer her, only continues up to the sanctuary where he lays the person down. If Mercedes squints through the darkness, she can make out the white fabric of a dress that cascades down the altar steps. She also notices a trail of what looks like blood following the man’s path up to the head of the cathedral—ruby droplets staining the marble floor. She takes several more urgent paces forward.

“Sir, are either of you injured?” she asks, drawing closer to them. Her heart is stuck in her throat; surely one of them is hurt.

Before she can step up to the sanctuary, she hears the Mausoleum doors crash open once more. Looking to her left, she catches a glimpse of familiar faces—Dimitri, Felix, Linhardt… and—

“Professor Byleth?”

Her head of mussed teal hair pushes ahead of Mercedes’ classmates to join her in the center of the cathedral. The Professor steps protectively in front of Mercedes, ushering her to stay behind her with an urgent wave of an arm.

“Professor—what is going on?” she asks fearfully. “I—I think that man needs help—”

“No,” the Professor cuts her off suddenly. “Get back.” Her voice is commanding and positively foreboding, causing Mercedes to nearly jump out of her skin. With a swallow, she heeds her direction and retreats. Hilda reaches out and grabs onto Mercedes’ hand, pulling her into the group of her classmates. She stands closely to Hilda, feeling safer among company… well, until she notices that Hilda is carrying an axe in her left hand.

“Be not afraid,” the man says from the cathedral altar. “Today, your mother returns to us. The time has come… to finish the ritual.” He produces a small pocket knife from inside of his robes—the silver catching the glimmering moonlight that casts down in ribbons from the windows.

The faces of Seiros and the Four Saints look down from their places in the stained glass scenes above… down at the man as he takes his blade to his wrist, dancing it across the skin there with a muffled cry. The knife drops to the floor beside him as he holds his bleeding wrist over the woman lying prone on the altar.

“Perhaps I am not an equal man to him…” the man murmurs through a broken smile. “But I am here by your side, Sitri.”

The altar begins to illuminate with an unearthly glow—bright and blinding enough for all of them to shield their eyes. Then comes the screaming. It starts as a broken sob, but quickly distends into an ear-shattering polyphony of horrific cries.

“Sitri…”

“Si… tri…”

_ “Sitri…!” _

Then, the light and noise ceases abruptly, plummeting the entire cathedral into darkness and dizzying silence. Mercedes clings tightly to Hilda’s arm like a scared child. She wants to run away—what kind of sacrilegious act had she stumbled upon? In the sacred home of the goddess, no less.

The quiet doesn’t last for long, as the screaming is replaced by grotesque splitting and cracking of bones and flesh. The two figures on the altar morph into one single terrifying, amalgamous form. And all of it is too much… far too much. It is like Conand Tower. But worse than Mercedes could ever think possible.

The last thing Mercedes remembers is the smell of putrid flesh and iron… and the sound of the Sword of the Creator scraping along alabaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*adds Mercedes to the tagged characters*_ 😉
> 
> Thanks so much if you've read this far!! I wish I could give you a pizzelle as a treat for reaching the finish line of this one. Please tell me what you think in the comments below--I'd love to hear what you think!
> 
> Also, next chapter will be published January 3rd to ring in the new year! Mark your calendars!! If you've been following the sequence of chapter titles and themes... then you know what's coming in the next chapter. It's going to be a big one. 👀


	14. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth and the students face the umbral beast... and suffer the consequences.
> 
> “This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.”  
>  _-King Lear, 5.3.278-280_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapter is here a little later than what I had promised! I was ill over NYE weekend, so I was resting. But, I hope that this chapter doesn't disappoint. There is some formatting where I tried to be a little ~fancy~ so I hope it translates on mobile/tablet. If not... please forgive me!
> 
> The lovely Telsiree beta'd this chapter, for which I am eternally grateful. ❤️

Sleep has never come easily to Edelgard.

When she was a child, it was by choice. She’d stay up into the wee hours of the morning with her nose stuck in a book. She loved to gather tomes from the palace library and keep them in a stack under her bed—often getting scolded by her older brothers in the process for scaling the sliding ladder to reach the top shelves. More than once her mother made her apologize to the palace servants for her little book-hoarding habit; and more than once she was late to breakfast from a late night of reading.

Now, losing sleep is hardly of her own accord. There’s plenty to keep her awake without the need for a good book.

Tonight, she is already awake when the church bells start ringing.

The tolling seems to add more chill to the air, the hair on her arms standing on end as she throws the covers off of her and pads over the corner of her room. She slips into her boots, the looseness of her linen pants bunching around the ankles. She steps out into the dormitory hallway, and notices several of the other students doing the same—all of them dressed in their night clothes.

She doesn’t even bother to knock on Hubert’s door before opening it, and while she isn’t surprised to find his room and bed empty at this hour, it causes her heart to jump into her throat.

Especially when the sound of the bells tolling begin to be drowned out by screams and monstrous growling just outside the dormitory windows. She knows Hubert has been spending nights dealing with the Abyssian problem—one that her _uncle_ and his kind are involved in as well. Unfortunately, he hasn’t been able to keep her abreast of the developments because of Monica constantly circling her like a vulture.

But, based on the two scaled beasts roaming the lawns outside the dormitories, she can tell that the Agarthans’ plans are quite developed at this point. The other students are in a panic—Ingrid and Sylvain shouting at each other from opposite ends of the hallway, Lorenz tugging on his own boots and pulling on his jacket. Caspar is grabbing on the sleeve of Edelgard’s nightshirt, giving it a tug. She tears her eyes away from the scene outside for just a moment to look at his alarmed expression and the axe in his hand.

“C’mon, we gotta check on the others downstairs,” he tells her urgently. “Ferdinand’s here—but where’s Hubert?”

Edelgard breathes in sharply, her eyes hardening. “I don’t know,” she says before ducking into her room and grabbing a weighty silver axe from the small collection she has amassed. It’s not a lie—she really has no idea where Hubert is right now. She trusts that he is safe—whether he’s underground or somewhere else entirely. He is apt at defending himself and finding a way out of dire situations.

She follows Caspar down the staircase, and as they step out into the brisk nighttime air, she can see Petra, Dedue, and Ashe already hard at work facing one of the beasts toward the northern end of the dorms. She also notices crimson robes clinging to the shadows, unmistakable beaked masks poking about in the darkness. She lifts her axe and grits her teeth, but before she can step in their direction, Caspar is at her side again demanding her attention.

“We’re missing Linhardt, too,” he tells her exasperatedly. His voice cracks slightly, and it breaks Edelgard a little inside. She assumes Linhardt is with Hubert, wherever that is. Caspar doesn’t know that, though. She gives Caspar’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

“Let’s find them, then,” she offers resolutely. With axes in hand, they join their peers to fell the beasts on the dormitory lawn before stumbling upon another over by the classrooms… a fourth flying down to perch on the stone loggia that bridges the classrooms and the reception hall.

When fighting the beasts in close-combat, Edelgard is able to get a closer look at them in the darkness. Scaled and inhuman creatures with leathery wings that cause the cypress trees in the courtyard to yield under their power. They’re markedly different than beasts of _their_ creation—their wings and ivory coloring setting them apart. That and the crest-stone fragment set deep in the creases of the beasts’ foreheads—a gleaming pale blue instead of the blackened sanguine that she has come to know from all of the Agarthans’ foul experiments.

 _Which could only mean,_ she thinks to herself. _If_ they _did not create these beasts, who—_

Edelgard’s thoughts are interrupted with an ear-shattering roar off in the distance, once that quite literally reverberates the ground beneath her feet. As soon as she and the other students have some respite from the dreadful sound, the winged beasts around them begin to squaw in cacophony. Almost like a response to the louder roar just a moment before.

Finally, a few of the Knights and monks join in to help them quell the beasts. With as many that were out patrolling the monastery grounds this evening following the early curfew, it’s curious that it took so long for any of them to respond to this sudden outbreak of beasts. _And dark mages,_ Edelgard reminds herself, catching a glimpse of a beaked mask out of the corner of her eye.

She breaks off from the fray now that the other students have help from the blades and white magic of the Knights and monks, insistent on following the dark mages and perhaps— _hopefully_ —finding Hubert, the Professor, and the others. She ducks into the reception hall, adrenaline pushing her feet forward one in front of the other. The wall sconces flicker, revealing a pair of monks nearly tripping over each other as they scramble into the hall from the northern entrance. Their panicked breathing and mad rush startles Edelgard.

She rounds the corner halfway, throwing a curious glance in the direction that the monks came sprinting in from. The bridge to the cathedral is bathed in moonlight, revealing a few more figures desperately running away from the holy building. Even from here, nearly a hundred yards away, she can hear the shudder of the cathedral doors before feeling the rumbling of another monstrous roar.

Against her better judgement, perhaps, she steps outside as a cowardly Knight and priest barrel past her on the bridge.

  
  
  


* * *

“Shh, shh. We’ll be okay, Bernie. Breathe with me, okay?” Dorothea murmurs. She’s holding a trembling Bernadetta to her chest, petting her hair gently. It takes nearly all of her focus to steady her own nerves and prevent her _own_ hand from shaking. But she needs to do it for the small girl curled up next to her.

Petra ushered Bernie into Dorothea’s care before darting off to join some of the others in slaying the beasts parading about on their doorsteps. Retreating into Dorothea’s room and shutting the door was the best option—and really the only option given Bernadetta’s state.

“Wh-what is g-going on?” the small girl quavers, clinging to the covers that are drawn around her. Dorothea can feel the fabric of her nightshirt grow damp as Bernie cries into her shoulder. “Monsters? W-why are they h-here?”

Dorothea raises her head to look over at Monica who sits stiffly on the edge of her bed pushed alongside the opposite side of the small room. The red-haired girl hasn’t made a sound since the bells, beasts, and bedlam broke out. _She’s been through a lot already,_ Dorothea thinks to herself as she studies the stony expression on Monica’s face. _To experience this awful mess so soon after finally being somewhere safe again? Poor thing._

A persistent knocking at their door captures both of their attention, as they turn to look at the door. Monica is still quiet, but finally glances up at Dorothea as she pulls herself delicately from Bernie who huddles even further into the corner. The songstress gives Monica an inauspicious look as she crosses the room toward the door—looking out through the crack between the wood and frame first. She catches the tiniest glimpse of ginger hair—enough for her to quickly yank the door open.

Ferdinand stands before her in a white linen tunic that’s haphazardly tucked into a pair of breeches and his usually perfect coif is disheveled slightly. The distressed expression on his face immediately softens when he’s face to face with her.

“You are here,” he breathes. “I am glad you are safe—is Bernadetta with you?”

Dorothea nods, side-stepping to let him look into the candle-lit room at Bernie still cowering under the covers of her bed. His eyes also linger over Monica who remains as still as a statue. She notices the sword in his hand… and his lack of company. “Are you going to fight?” she asks, despite the fact that it’s a dumb question. It’s Ferdie she’s asking about. _Of course he’d run off to face whatever threats faced the monastery or his classmates._

“Yes, but where are the—”

“Caspar was down here a little bit ago. He said that Lin and Hubie were missing. Him and Edie went that way,” she says pointing out in the direction of the training grounds where she last saw them venture off to before she pulled a near hysterical Bernie back into the safety of her room. “They’re both looking for them, I think—”

 _“Edelgard?”_ He flashes her an intense look, his voice darkening. Before Dorothea can assure him that Edie is more than capable of handling herself, he’s speaking again—this time to her. “Stay here with Bernadetta... and Monica,” he says, amber eyes flicking over to her roommate. “They are safest here with you. I will help find the others.”

Dorothea swallows, the clash of weapons and screaming beasts amidst the persistent bells overwhelming her. The monastery is supposed to be safe—a respite from battle and the monsters in their midst, human or otherwise. She feels like they were all like frogs in cauldrons of water, slowly simmered over the past several moons… and now, the pot of water is at a rolling boil.

Not just that, but it’s bubbling over. Tonight isn’t a coordinated mission like their past battles—it’s chaos. And it scares her. Sure, Bernie and Monica are safe with her—she doesn’t need Ferdie to tell her that. But her friends are out there facing danger or _worse_ while she’s stuck here. The thought of anything happening to them… is…

As Ferdinand pivots to leave, she reaches out and touches his arm. His skin is warm under the wrinkled fabric. It stops him for just a second, maybe two. The moonlight illuminates him from behind, shining through the messy pieces of his hair and down onto broad shoulders the freckles on his neck from the sun. Dorothea would consider the sight romantic if the circumstances weren’t so heartbreaking and dire.

 _You better make it back to me in one piece, Ferdie,_ she wants to say. “Be safe,” she settles on saying instead.

But _I love you,_ is what she really means, especially in a moment like this.

It’s just not the right time. It _never_ is— and perhaps it won’t ever be. As Ferdinand jogs off across the dormitory lawns, she prays that that wasn’t the last time she had to say those words.

She tears her eyes away from the darkness outside her door and Ferdinand’s figure shrinking into the distance as he joins their classmates in arms against the pair of giant winged beasts. As Dorothea moves to push the door shut once more, Monica interrupts her by wordlessly slipping through the door frame.

“Hey, where are you going?” Dorothea asks, flabbergasted. Monica doesn’t say anything at all—doesn’t even turn back to acknowledge her. She just continues down the steps and onto the grass like she hadn’t heard a thing from Dorothea or the beasts roaring into the night.

Without thinking, she darts out after her and grabs her shoulder from behind, jerking her to a stop. “Monica, what has gotten into you?” she asks, not as kindly as she knows she should be with someone who has gone through what Monica has. “You don’t have shoes on, and you don’t have a weapon. It’s not safe—”

Her red-haired roommate pulls away, carmine eyes once again turned forward. “I’m just going to help look for Edel.”

Before Dorothea can argue further, Monica’s in motion again—determined to go off without any means of defending herself. Her heart tightens in her chest, torn between chasing after her to make sure no harm befalls her… and staying back with Bernie who needs her as well. Realizing that she too is without shoes or her sword… she retreats after a moment of hesitation.

Crawling back into bed and holding a crying Bernadetta preoccupies her enough to stop worrying about Monica and Ferdinand and Edelgard and _everyone._

  
  
  


* * *

He sees—with eyes open and incomparable clarity.

He sees the man he once called his mentor fall victim to his covetous desire for the past. A foolish endeavor, really. Romantics and poets and jaded idealists like Aelfric might yearn for what has been, but the simple fact is the past can never again be. Yuri knows this all too well—and yet, he can’t expect others to be nearly as rational about the matter.

He sees the Chalice curse Aelfric and curse that woman; the grotesque birthing of some hideous amalgamation of all the blood and rot and goddess-knows what else. He sees as the creature stirs from the altar, watches as it takes its first precarious steps. Talons scrape offensively against the marble while it stands tall and stretched toward the heavens just beyond the cathedral’s dome.

For all Yuri has seen in his lifetime—for all the despair and wretched things he has encountered in the corners and alleys and city streets of Fódlan—this is by far the most frightening. _But it’s fitting,_ he thinks bitterly. _Frightful such a beast must be, for supremely frightful are the consequences for anyone’s futile attempt to laugh in the face of the goddess._

The wings of the beast shadows the nave, preventing the moonlight from washing down; Yuri and Hubert both try several times to light the sconces that line the aisles, but again, the furious flailing of the beast’s wings extinguish them only moments later.

He’s sure it’s not wise for him to be joining the skirmish, but Yuri tells himself he’s lightheaded because of the abomination before him—not because his blood was drained to create this damned thing.

It’s better if he didn’t think about that at all. As he stops to catch his breath for a moment, shielding himself behind a pillar and feeling the cool stone against his feverish skin, his mind wanders. He wonders what the elder would think of all this. Did he ever suffer to see anything like this in his lifetimes? A singular moment where the ideal boundaries for life and death were shattered—obliterated into a million pieces.

Constance was right. Playing goddess is a sin most grievous. Perhaps _this_ is Her punishment.

 _I deserve it as much as Aelfric,_ he supposes as he lunges forward to make another fruitless strike at the beast. But just as he begins to fall back, that damned cardinal appears before him. A phantasm that looks and grins and casts magic just the same as the real Aelfric. It startles the shit out of Yuri, perhaps more so than the beast.

The phantom’s eyes are dark… much darker than he remembers. The only thing present in them is a reflection of Yuri. And when he dares to look back into those empty eyes, Yuri can feel himself cower. 

He tells himself it’s just an illusion, that it’s not real and to just raise his sword, _dammit_ —but he can’t. As the phantom Aelfric draws nearer, Yuri feels his face split into a crooked grimace. Yuri wants to laugh at this—at all of it. Aelfric really found a way to have him dead, didn’t he? He still maintains control over Yuri, even now. It turns out not even death can stop the determined heart and resolve of that man.

“You can't hear me now, can you? Not like this—not anymore,” he murmurs, sliding the sole of his boot backward to only delay the inevitable.

And of course the phantom doesn’t respond. A small part of Yuri hates himself for wanting a response at all. “You really are a damn fool, you know that?”

In a blink, the fragments of the Sword of the Creator wrap around the ghost, binding it tightly and drawing it backward. Yuri watches as the blade is snapped back, but instead of slicing through flesh and bone, it dispels the apparition into a foggy veil.

Byleth bumps into his shoulder as she readies her blade again. “If you can’t fight, leave and help the others,” she tells him, words barbed and angry like they were back at the chapel ruins.

Yuri shakes his head and sets his jaw in renewed grit. He raises the blade of his rapier wordlessly as more phantoms of Aelfric close in on the two of them. He sees—with eyes open and incomparable clarity—the shadows of a man _he_ allowed to clip his feathers and silence him with thinly veiled threats.

But if there’s one thing Yuri carries with him from his miserable past, it’s that nothing and _nobody_ can shackle him. After all, a caged bird never sings.  
  
  
  


* * *

Ferdinand can tell from the parapets by the classroom courtyards that something is happening at the cathedral. Even in the pitch black night, the ornate windows of the towers light up from within with flickers of white and purple that almost resemble flashes of lightning on a stormy and overcast night. Despite that and one of the winged beasts circling overhead the Church of Seiros’ most holy place, the church bells persevere into the night, providing a steady rhythm that underlies the shrill monstrous cries and the clash of weaponry.

He left Dorothea to care for Bernie and Monica, and he had passed Petra near the training grounds. Caspar has his axe sunk deep into the leg of one of the beasts outside the Blue Lions classroom. Although Dorothea told him that the two axe-wielding Black Eagles left together, there’s no sight of Edelgard. Or Linhardt or Hubert, for that matter.

Briefly he considers helping fell the two beasts in the courtyard, but by the looks of it, Caspar and the others are finally getting reinforcement from a few of the Knights and monks. Ferdinand looks again to the cathedral in the distance, illuminated by what can only be the sparks of magic. That is where he must go, he decides.

Bounding up the short steps into the corridor, he finds himself nose to nose with a familiar face. Or a faceless familiar, rather. He stares wide-eyed at the vacant circles of their metallic beaked masks as they gargle before sliding off of the blade in Ferdinand’s hand. _They are here again,_ he thinks to himself. Unease flushes through him at the memory of their masks and the harrowing acts they’ve committed over the past several moons—and at the thought that his house leader and future Emperor is at all connected with these happenings.

 _As fate would have it,_ he supposes, _she’s here._ When he steps out on the bridge, Ferdinand sees the Flame Emperor burnished in the moonbeams. But the scene is hardly as auspicious as he might have anticipated it to be. There’s no glittering slate armor, no crimson embellishments or polished mask to hide behind.

No, it’s only a small woman whose head doesn't come close to reaching the shoulders of the dark mage she’s fending off. Dirty, blood-stained linen and silver hair falling haphazardly out of the bun she wears to bed.

The silver of her axe reflects the purple eminence of the magic they cast at her. She twists away just enough or chops through each blast, though she coughs at the putrid stench as it billows around them. Despite being in such close combat with a spellcaster, she's struggling to get the upper hand enough to land a definitive strike. He might even daresay she's _losing._

The Flame Emperor, in truth. But right now there’s no mask and no facade.

Just Edelgard.

And her movements are inelegant and teetering on the edge of desperation. Ferdinand picks up the pace as he makes his way to the center of the bridge. The mage tilts the beak of their mask in his direction as he closes in, blade poised and ready to strike. Much to Ferdinand’s surprise, the mage maintains the Miasma threatening Edelgard with one hand, their other one parting from the spell just long enough to fire a blast of caustic sortilege right at him.

He can barely lift his arm quick enough to shield his eyes from the blinding violet flare of the magic as it prickles against the exposed skin of his hand and wrist. The force of the spell is enough to send him stumbling backward, dropping his sword in the process as he hisses a curse between gritted teeth. Ferdinand flexes his sword hand gingerly, biting back a groan at how painful the magic had burned his skin, now bright pink and inflamed.

Edelgard yelps, causing him to lift his head. She has two hands on her axe, the only thing separating her from the crackling dark magic that keeps pushing incrementally closer as she’s backed against the stone balustrade of the cathedral bridge.

The ultraviolet incandescence of the spell casts her pale face in an eerie glow and makes her lavender eyes even brighter. Betraying that brightness, however, is the flicker of consternation that clouds her eyes when her heel meets stone. Nowhere else to go.

“You should have stayed in your dorm like a good little student,” the mage chuckles darkly. A furious emotion washes over Edelgard’s normally stony expression, her eyebrows twitching and upper lip curling back ever so lightly.

“Maybe you’ll grow wings, too, little princess,” the mage taunts as they push Edelgard against the balustrade, her petite frame veering over the edge. As Ferdinand scrambles to his feet and for his sword, he swears he hears her whimper when she looks over the edge and down into the misty crag at the bottom of what would be a long, perilous plummet.

He sinks his blade into the mage, piercing through crimson robes and the flesh beneath. The point of his sword is angled upward, likely puncturing a lung as they give a crackling wheeze before their spell fizzles out before them. In one last surge of vigor before imminent death, the mage twists as much as they’re able and grasps onto the base of the sword with gloved hands. 

Their breaths are shallow, desperate rasps for air. The sharp steel of Ferdinand’s sword cuts through the leather of their gloves easily as the mage tightens their shaking hands around the weapon. Ferdinand’s face contorts into a hardened scowl as he twists his blade with a sharp motion.

The masked mage makes a choked sound before breathing, “Perhaps we were wrong about you.” Ferdinand blinks, his eyes widening in confusion. Before the mage has a chance to say anything else with their dying breath, he jerks his sword again. There’s a sickening wet sound before the mage stills.

As he pulls his blade from the dark mage, a powerful gust stings his eyes and messies his hair. Squinting up in the sky blearily, his breath hitches.

“Why did you—” Edelgard starts to ask, but is cut off as Ferdinand wraps an arm around her to grab a fistful of her night shirt.

“Get down!” he shouts, voice swallowed up by the shrill cries of one of the beasts approaching. Ferdinand yanks her down, both of them crouched in a last-moment attempt at defending themselves. His heart is hammering inside of his chest as he cracks one eye open to see the giant winged beast swoop down to the cathedral bridge and perch on the stone balustrade several yards down from them.

The beast has bat-like wings that are almost translucent in the moonlight and long curled talons that cause the intricately carved balusters to crack and crumble, giving way under the sheer weight of the winged creature settled atop it. After a few agonizingly long seconds of waiting as still as they possibly can, the winged monster squacks again before taking flight once more to circle the monastery.

Ferdinand stands shakily, and Edelgard sits back on her heels. Her small hand curls around the handle of her axe.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

He doesn’t know what to think or to say. It’s odd seeing her vulnerable like this. All of it is dizzying to consider, and even more difficult for him to reconcile when he looks at her eyes that carry the same forlorn intensity as Gelfrid the creature. Or her hair as ghastly as Dieterich, the shell of the man—the Emperor he could have once been… the incoherent babbling about the beast,

The beast,

The beast,

The beast that brings Despair,

Tell Edelgard

not to become the beast.  
  


_"I'm interested in doing my best in this life, because I allowed too many people to suffer in the last one."_

_"Even her?"_

  
  


“Yes,” he murmurs, realization dawning on him as the coolness of the autumn night air makes him shiver without his jacket. Edelgard looks up at him with a confused expression, and she opens and closes her mouth like she wants to say something. Ferdinand silences her with an outstretched hand—the one not covered with Miasma burns.

She regards it with hesitation before grabbing his hand resolutely, allowing him to help her to her feet. Wordlessly they turn and proceed on to the cathedral.

_Even her._

  
  
  


* * *

"Hey!"

There’s this ringing in Linhardt’s ears, like a buzzing from a honeybee that won’t leave him alone when he’s lounging in the greenhouse. Or like the droning of chatter from summertime study sessions on picnic blankets while he tries to indulge in an afternoon nap by the wisteria that creeps up the weathered stone walls in the courtyard.

It hums gratingly atop everything else, dampening any other sounds happening around him. Which is a lot, considering the aberration that is thrashing about the Garreg Mach cathedral… sprung from the depths of the eternal flames themselves. A disastrous consequence of this so-called holy artifact in the hands of a horribly misguided cardinal.

 _Sometimes,_ he supposes, _truth is stranger than that of frivolous legends found in cheaply bound books._

"Hey, hey, c'mon Linhardt."

He turns his head weakly to the side, thinking he heard his name through the incessant buzzing. Turns out his eyesight is blurry, too. There’s someone sticking their face very close to his, which bothers him. Defiantly, he lets his head roll back and he scrunches his eyes shut. He wishes people would respect his personal space, _especially now._ Do they not _know_ what is going on right now? He doesn’t need more stress.

_“Linhardt!”_

His eyes fly open and he lifts his head which takes every bit of his effort and energy. After blinking furiously, the figure in front of him starts to slip into focus. Obnoxious blue hair and an even _more_ obnoxious voice that keeps stabbing through that bothersome ringing. It feels like slow motion when his lips curl into a doting smile.

Caspar sighs exasperatedly. “Finally, _Seiros.”_

Lazily, Linhardt reaches out and wraps his hand around his partner’s forearm. "It's past your bedtime," Linhardt jokes wryly. He knows he's slurring his words slightly—not just because he can really hear it all that well, but because he feels his mind and body lagging behind and falling more and more out of synch with each other.

Also, the increasingly alarmed look on Caspar's face is a dead giveaway.

"How bad is it?" Linhardt dares to ask. He doesn’t really want to think about how much blood he’s lost, nor does he want to calculate the odds of him getting an infection from that defiled creature… _goddess_ _knows_ where its talons have been.

Once he started seeing double and couldn’t land a spell for anything, Claude practically pushed him to the sidelines. Eventually, he ended up here… wherever that is. Outside the cathedral, he knows that much. The stars sit plainly in the sky with the waning moon. Somehow, they’ve lost all their magic and wonder. At least for tonight.

Caspar plucks at the fabric of Linhardt’s shirt with two fingers to inspect the wound underneath, and Linhardt doesn’t need to see perfectly to notice the reaction play out over his face. "Uh, pretty bad,” he says slowly, not yet tearing his gaze away from the eyesore that is the wound in his side. “Can’t you do that thing of yours?"

Linhardt laughs weakly. "I tried,” he says, feigning a pout. He chuckles again and pokes Caspar’s arm playfully with his finger. _“See,_ you should have listened to me and taken Manuela's faith seminar—"

 _"Stop_ joking,” he cuts him off, as serious and stern as he’s ever seen or heard Caspar. “Don't you…. Don't you _care?_ Like at all?"

Well, _that’s_ something Linhardt had never really considered.

He theoretically _knows_ he cares about things. Like Caspar, for instance. That’s why he’s so relieved he’s here with him. He also cares about his research, and about books—and those who write them, by association. He cares very much about napping. And Linhardt _supposes_ he cares about whoever prepares those delectable sweet buns each morning in the dining hall.

But caring about _this?_ What does Caspar mean exactly—that he doesn’t care about monsters? Or that he doesn’t care about the concept of dying?

Perhaps there is something _wrong_ with Linhardt. He’s seen plenty of beasts by now, none of them by choice. Perhaps the monsters lose their sparkle after a while. Or worse, maybe he's becoming too used to seeing flesh bubble up like black tar as bones pierce through flesh only for it to reknit itself like patchwork.

Maybe he’s seen too much bloodshed and too much horror for this lifetime and the next. He’d be lying to Caspar if he said he wished to stay in this realm—one hypothetically governed by a goddess that allows such cruel and barbarous acts to take place from the palace in Enbarr to some small forgotten village in Ordelia county… and now here, in this supposed _most holy site._

Today is a bad day. Possibly the worst. Linhardt has never regretted his research. But right now as he loses sensation around the wound on his side and his fingers begin to grow numb… he regrets his curiosity.

"Hey, it's Mercie. Hold on—" Caspar stands suddenly and waves, calling for the Blue Lions' healer. The one who serendipitously happened to be in the cathedral all the while… only to faint at the sight of the beast. Linhardt lets his head fall to the side again as Mercedes kneels down before him. He snorts at the irony.

“How lovely, you’re feeling better just in time,” he says weakly. Based on the frown on both of their faces, he’s not sure his humor is translating anymore.

Mercedes peels back the same piece of torn fabric to evaluate his wound, and Linhardt notices her face grow even more pale—if such a thing was even possible. He’s worked shifts with her in the infirmary before, enough for him to know the look she gets on her face when someone’s injuries are grim. She’ll press her lips together firmly and flex the muscles in her jaw slightly while keeping her gaze soft. Polite and never betraying the gravity of the situation to the one who will fall victim to it.

He’s always seen her give that look to the Knights that ride in from battle, barely in one piece. Or to Hubert when he was mangled halfway to his grave by the Death Knight.

So it’s odd to see her give that look to him.

“I need concoctions. And sutures,” she tells Caspar, tilting her chin to look up at him. His partner looks like he’s about to be sick, his hands on his hips as he stares down at Linhardt. Mercedes seems to pick up on this, too.

“Don’t worry, Caspar. He’s safe with me,” she says in her overly sterile and sweet voice. Linhardt would laugh at how pitifully awful this situation is if he had the strength to do so. “Go and find Professor Manuela. Bring her, those supplies I told you, and any other available healers.”

Mercedes looks back toward the cathedral as another ear-splitting roar rattles the enormous doors on their hinges.

“We’ll need them.”

  
  
  
  


* * *

The stench of iron and sulfur is enough to make Felix dizzy, but his desire for retribution spurs him on. He is nowhere near as powerful as this beast that is tearing through the cathedral, splintering the pews and knocking them all around like playthings.

In comparison, the beast at Conand was _nothing_ compared to this one… the handful back at Castle Gerth were laughable. Whatever magic is imbued into that stupid cup should not be in the hands of any mortal man. In Felix’s opinion, the chalice belongs in the depths of Ailell. Or better yet, shoved back into the chasm where they got it. That way, those creepy metal death traps can watch over it and make sure no one is tempted to make the same mistakes.

Seeing that man transform into a black beast at Conand was utterly terrifying, and he _knew_ heading in there that such a thing was a distinct possibility if anyone other than Sylvain took hold of the Lance of Ruin. But it couldn’t prepare him for that. Not in a _thousand_ lifetimes. If a Heroes’ Relic in the wrong hands made a beast like _that,_ one that nearly ripped off his arm and took a dozen of them to finally kill the damn thing… how much help would they need to take _this_ monstrosity down?

By his count, they only have a _fraction_ of the forces they had back at Conand, but the umbral beast before them now looms over them two-stories tall. Oh, and apparently whatever hell-magic this _thing_ has can make little ghosts. Except they’re not little and they’re not the kind that Mercedes jokes about with Annette and Ashe. They look like Aelfric, they’re as tall as Aelfric, and they cast magic.

And no matter how many times him and the boar kill them, they just won’t _die._

It doesn’t help their cause any that Balthus and Yuri are fighting at half-strength, and Constance, who’s in bad shape herself, has her hands tied with getting Hapi the healing she needs. Mercedes, for whatever stupid reason, was in the cathedral, too. But he shouldn’t rag on her too much, because once she came to after fainting, she’s been healing the ones who _can_ fight.

And dear Saints, do they need the healing.

Linhardt fell out of the fight pretty quickly after getting pinned up against one of the cathedral pillars by the beast’s tail. Both Hilda and Hubert each were on the receiving end of one of its talons. In their current state, they are barely able to hold their own against the unrelenting phantoms—much less deal enough magical damage to break any of the beast’s scales. Missing four spellcasters was really doing them in. Swords and lances do little against scales that are tougher than any armor forged in the known world.

For the second time in as many days, Felix has to give Hubert credit. He’s sure doing his damnedest to make some sort of difference. Three of them—the boar, Hilda, and Felix—are struggling to give the lanky dark-haired mage enough of a chance to make that dark magic of his really count. They fend off the phantoms and the occasional agitated swipe or swing of the beast’s tail.

Felix, in an attempt to hurry things along—since Hubert is taking too long for his liking—slices through a ghost-Aelfric with his blade in one hand, then quickly pivots and hurls a Fire spell with his other at the belly of the beast. That, paired with the Death Γ from Hubert, causes the creature to jostle. He lights up at the opportunity he sees presented before him—the scales of the beast weakened enough in that spot to actually do some damage with his sword. Unfortunately, the coupled strength of that magical attack also redirected the beast’s attention on their quartet.

That split second of hesitation—of _hubris_ —is a mistake. Pain explodes in his shoulder as a Sagittae spell hits him square. He grunts and hunches over, his momentum slipping. When he looks up, the beast is right there. Beneath the enormous anomalous half-human-half-ram skull looking thing on its face, Felix catches a glimpse of its several rows of razor sharp teeth that stretch impossibly wide. 

When he moves to withdraw—no way in _hell_ he would chance fighting his way out of this—he loses his footing on a spot slick with black gunk from the beast. He catches himself with his sword arm before he completely falls, but that monstrous maw grins at him nonetheless as it draws closer. _This is it,_ he thinks to himself. _The end._

As the hot breath from the umbral beast bears down on him, and as he resigns himself to becoming a snack for this _thing..._ something grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him backward. It scares the shit out of Felix—almost as much as it scares him when Dimitri steps out and puts himself between Felix and those dangerously close sharp teeth.

The creature grins again, the moonlight glinting off its pointed smile—this time, the beast is rearing to devour Dimitri instead. _Fuck,_ Felix scrambles to react, to do _something—_

A gutteral whine erupts from the beast, so deafening that it causes Felix to physically recoil. Black blood splatters over the white sleeves of his shirt, some warm droplets hitting his face. He’s too astounded to wipe them away with the back of his hand. Dimitri had thrusted his lance upwards into the beast’s jaw with his insane strength, crest activating and flashing before his eyes. The silver tip of the weapon sticks out of the exposed bone of the creature’s face, somehow managing to crack it in the process. The beast thrashes its head back and forth in response, still screeching.

Now it’s Felix’s turn. He grabs onto Dimitri’s blue cape that’s fluttering in the small gale created from the beast’s wings and drags him backward. “What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” Felix yells at the now weaponless prince. The blonde offers relieved smile—not a fucking apology or a promise to do better next time, which annoys Felix. Not that he’s quite certain there _is_ a next time for any of them. 

They both fall back to rejoin Hubert and Hilda, both of which are fending off a small army of phantom Aelfrics and a now very pissed off beast that has them trapped in the southeastern corner of the cathedral.

“Look what you did,” Felix hisses after slicing through one of the ghost’s spells. Hubert quickly offers Dimitri the sword from his belt before going back to dispelling the specter onslaught with sizzling Mire Bs. “Why am I even surprised? Predator should recognize predator. You just _had_ to be a boar and put as all in danger—”

“I _saved_ you,” Dimitri bites back. He effortlessly takes down two phantoms in one swing, even with the pathetic shortsword that Hubert gave him—one that Dimitri would snap in half like a twig if he swung it at a real human or at that beast. _Goddess, they_ are _fucked, aren’t they?_

Felix’s lost sight of Yuri, Byleth, and the others… and there’s no way to hear them over the incessant grousing of the umbral beast. The creature stomps a little too close to Hubert, and the tile splits beneath it—and him, knocking the tall mage backward as the jagged piece of marble flooring displaces under the weight of the beast’s taloned foot.

“You know, Hilda,” he growls as he peels himself off the floor. “Now would be a great time for you to help me.”

The pink-haired girl looks accosted even as she uppercuts her axe through Aelfric’s smug looking face for the upteenth time tonight. “What are you talking about?” she whines, though it sounds more fearful and exasperated than usual.

Hubert, now back on his feet, stands beside her and blasts three more approaching phantoms with Miasma in quick succession. He grits his teeth and gives her the most serious and deadly look Felix has _ever_ seen on that man’s face—which is saying something. _“You_ _know_ what I’m talking about,” he retorts. “Magic is the only way we’re getting out of this mess.”

Hilda shoots him a pleading look. “I-I can’t!” she sucks in a breath as she dissipates another ghost with the blade of her axe. “Right now?!”

The beast has all of them effectively trapped in the corner—a miracle being the only way they would all be able to sneak by the agitated creature unscathed. That is, if they don’t get overrun by phantoms that sling fire balls at them. Or, if the beast doesn’t crumble the entire eastern wall of the cathedral first, burying them in rubble. Imagine getting crushed to death by stone in a battle like this—how utterly pathetic.

 _“Yes,_ right now!” Hubert demands.

Felix fights shoulder to shoulder with Dimitri as they try to push forward at least a foot or so to take the brunt off the girl so she can do whatever is being asked of her. Felix assumes it’s some sort of magic, but he didn’t realize that lazy girl could actually cast a spell. Not that _he’s_ one to talk on the matter. Hubert pushes in front of Hilda with a final pointed look—a desperate plea, if Felix ever did see one.

“Hilda, I _swear_ to the goddess,” Felix yells back at her. “If you don’t do whatever the fuck he’s asking you to, I will—”

A crack of light ruptures from the ceiling of the cathedral, splitting through the air in a brilliant and blinding white flash. A second later, a thunderous boom makes Felix wince as he physically feels it in his bones and in the floor beneath his feet. He hears one of the stained glass windows shatter behind him, little bits of colored glass raining down on their shoulders and onto the phantom Aelfrics—which amazingly, the sharp little fragments are enough to dispel the group of murderous apparitions.

The beast roars again as another bolt strikes him from above; it staggers backward, allowing the four of them free passage to find the others and regroup. Felix looks over at Hilda who lifts her axe and props it on her shoulder, motioning for him to come along. He swallows and nods, following after her as she moves to the left of the beast. As the group passes the cathedral’s southern entrance, the doors creak open revealing a moonbeam that paints the narthex in pale white light.

 _“Hubert!”_ a feminine voice calls out.

Everyone turns to look at Edelgard and Ferdinand—both dressed in their night clothes which are stained with blood and dirt. _Goddess,_ Felix has never been more happy to see her or Ferdinand.

That said, the looks on each of their faces suggest otherwise. Not that they’re unhappy to see _him personally,_ but rather that their eyes are fearfully wide and trained on the grotesque umbral beast in the center of the cathedral.

  
  
  
  


* * *

With a mournful final cry to the heavens, the beast withers away into ash and black sediment. Whatever magic had fused their bodies into that creature dissipates, leaving behind only the corporeal remains—two corpses and a golden chalice.

Byleth paces over toward the scene before her. Aelfric, or what is left of him rather, is a grim sight. His hair has greyed like he’s aged decades, and the skin of his face has withered and wrinkled, stretched tightly over the bones in his cheeks and nose. His eyes are sunken but open, giving the appearance that he’s staring up at the stained glass figures of the saints and the goddess in the dome above.

Her mother is the opposite—as if she was completely unaffected by the awful alchemy that brought about that beast. Skin of porcelain, smooth and untouched by time as Aelfric had said. Byleth kneels down, placing the Sword of the Creator back on her hip. She regards her mother, her face familiar as if she had known it her entire life. Her mother looks like she could open her eyes any moment and smile up at Byleth, and perhaps foolishly she waits with bated breath for that moment—clinging naively to the dearest wish that all of this isn’t as horrible as it appears.

“Professor,” the archbishop says, her voice echoing about the sudden and jarring stillness of the cathedral. “I… imagine you have much on your mind.”

Byleth doesn’t look at her—barely hears Lady Rhea’s words. “My mother…” she murmurs, gently touching the pale wrist of the body laying before her. Her skin is cold, just like she remembered it being in that chamber in Abyss, and in her dream where she held her hand so tightly in hers. When her slender fingers brushed away the tears from her cheeks.

“Because of you, her restless soul has finally found peace,” Rhea continues on, her footsteps drawing nearer.

Byleth threads her fingers through her mothers. And while her hand remains limp and lifeless, cold and indifferent… it doesn’t stop her from wishing and willing with all her being that her mothers fingers curl around her own. But they don’t. No matter how much she wants or how much the tears burn at the corners of her eyes. 

“She’s… _gone…”_

“She has been, Professor. For a long time.” Byleth can hear the frown in Rhea’s voice. “I was there the day she brought you forth into this world. Sitri had always been... frail. Giving birth proved to be too much for her in the end.”

The soft click of her soles now cross into Byleth’s line of sight as Rhea steps before Byleth. The crisp white hem of her robes and the soft pebbled ivory leather of her shoes gliding across the marble floors of the cathedral now stained and smeared with blood and gore. She pauses, standing on the other side of her mother.

“On that fated day, it looked as though _neither_ of you would survive. In those final moments, she spoke, saying, ‘My heart... Give it to my child.’”

Byleth’s eyes widen as she absent-mindedly touches a hand to her chest, to the faded scar she knows remains beneath the fabric there. “My mother's heart gave me life?”

“That is correct,” Rhea hums in agreement. “The heart that lies within your chest is none other than hers. It was the only way that you could be saved.”

For an uncomfortable stretch of silence, Byleth considers what Rhea tells her. That she saved her. Perhaps the archbishop expects her gratitude for giving her a chance at life at the expense of her mother’s. The thought stings. But as she lets it stew, the more it torments her. The more it doesn’t make sense. Byleth presses her hand the scar beneath her shirt, to where a normal person’s heart should beat beneath. And the more seconds that pass by… adding to years and years of a lifetime with not a _single_ pulse within her chest…

The darkness creeps in—all doubt and all anger. All of the things her father told her in confidence. And now all of the things Aelfric told to Rhea herself. “How did you save me…” Byleth croaks out, her voice cracking, “when my heart doesn’t even _beat?_ ”

Rhea shakes her head and folds her hands. “Professor…”

“I saw her,” Byleth murmurs, mostly to herself. Like speaking it aloud reaffirms the truth she knows without a shadow of doubt, like it makes her mother’s existence all the more tangible whether that be in her dreams or laying among the forgotten and dust-covered remnants in Abyss.

“How could you allow one of your Cardinals to do such a thing to her?” she snaps, raising her head to glare at the archbishop who stands opposite her.

“I never could have imagined he’d be involved with our enemy. I sensed him… straying from the righteous path…. But I had no idea this is what he was plotting,” Rhea appeals. “Believe me, I am as saddened by this revelation as you are. Sitri… your mother… was like a _child_ to me—”

“How could you let this happen to your child, then?” Byleth interrupts. “What kind of mother does that make you?”

She realizes she shouted those words as she hears them echo through the cavernous building. An uncomfortable silence stretches across equally arduous moments. Rhea doesn’t respond. _But how could she?_ Byleth thinks darkly to herself. _When she has not a single excuse for her shortsightedness. For her blatant disregard for me or my mother._

“Why… why is she like _this?”_ Byleth demands.

Lady Rhea paces over to stand beside her, and she feels eclipsed by her presence towering over her. She doesn’t even bother to stoop down to Byleth's eye level, but reaches out a cold hand to rest on her shoulder in some attempt at comfort. Byleth doesn’t bother to look up at her, instead focusing on how the vermillion from the marble has begun to travel up the threading of her white robes.

“Professor... I wish… that I had answers for you.”

Byleth tears away from her hand. “So wouldn’t tell Aelfric, and now you won’t tell me?” she accuses. “Does my father know that she is like this? That she’s this… this unrotting corpse?” She motions to her mother’s body, perfectly alive but perfectly dead laying in a puddle of rot and carnage.

The archbishop looks affronted by her words, but reaches out regretfully again. “Professor… My child—”

 _“Don’t_ touch me,” Byleth shirks away, pulling herself up to her feet. Her fingertips can’t help but dance on the smooth ivory of the Sword on her hip. _“Don’t_ call me that. I am _her_ child, not yours.”

She backs away from Lady Rhea, the heels of her boots sloshing and sticking to the blood now coagulating on the alabaster floors. “Please, there is much that we are yet to understand,” Rhea pleads after Byleth.

The doors of the cathedral fly open, and in walks Seteth and Manuela, along with a scant few monks and Knights trailing behind them. Seteth nearly slips on the gore beneath his feet and Manuela buries her head in the crook of her elbow to stop herself from vomiting.

Byleth turns on her heel, spurning Lady Rhea and Aelfric and the entire debacle. When she pushes through the group congregated before the entrance, Manuela murmurs kind words in an attempt to soothe her. Seteth calls out after her not once, but twice. He even tries to grab her arm as she walks past him, but she pulls it back, using it to wipe away the moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes.

Once out on the bridge, the fresh air hits her. She breathes it in, but it’s not cleansing or healing. It stings.

She starts running, her legs feeling detached from her body as they carry her past bodies of dark mages and monks and Knights—all of which appeared to have perished in a skirmish of their own outside the cathedral while they were inside barely surviving themselves. At the stables, she brushes off Leonie as she hastily prepares a horse.

While tears stream down her cheek, collecting on her chin and dripping down onto her neck, she rides off, out of the monastery gates and into the darkness.

  
  
  


* * *

"What are you _doing?_ You're going to let her run off?" Felix snaps, grabbing a fist full of Dimitri's jacket that is still prim and nicely pressed despite the blood splatter and filth upon it. _A lot like him,_ he supposes. A tidy goody-goody front that the boar upholds to hide what's really there. But his true nature always peeks through once you give him a weapon and a battlefield. _Just like that stupid jacket and cape of his can't hide the stains._

Dimitri looks down at him with a startled expression and a knitted brow. He opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but closes it instead.

_Idiot._

Felix releases the front of his jacket with a _hmph_ and a shove, earning the stares of some of the other students as they pick up dropped weapons and assess their injuries through hushed whispers. He hates that they're looking. He hates that they're doing nothing, just like Dimitri.

 _"Fine,"_ he spits back with added venom. "You stand here like the boar you are. I'm going after the Professor."

Dimitri's jaw softens slightly as Felix sheaths his sword. The swordsman lingers for another long moment, equal parts impatient and irritable. But after giving the boar plenty of opportunity to march out those cathedral doors and chase after Byleth, like he should be doing if he cared enough at all to do so... Felix gives up and does it himself.

Outside the cathedral isn't a particularly quiet scene—Knights milling about, helping direct the students to their dorms and the injured to the infirmary. He sees one of them carrying a languid Linhardt down the bridge, Mercedes and Caspar right behind on the Knight's heels. He runs into Petra who tells him in her broken Fódlanish that the Professor was last seen headed south.

Yuri's words echo in his head— _don’t let Byleth run from it._ And Felix picks up the pace to go to the only place he can think of where she would go to run away from the monastery, from this total shit show.

Bounding past the Knight’s Hall and quarters, he arrives at the stables. Leonie is there, tense and frustrated as she tries to calm the horses. But, in the dim lantern light, he doesn’t see Byleth.

“Hey,” he blurts, not bothering to care if he sounds rude or otherwise. “Have you seen the Professor?”

She turns her head to give him an irritable look before turning back to her business. “Yeah, she was just here getting the horses all worked up,” she snarks.

Felix is about to lose his last nerve. “OK… and where is she now?”

“How am I supposed to know? She took a horse and left,” she replies with a roll of her eyes, nodding in the direction of the monastery’s entrance. Felix pulls open the gate, the clank of metal startling the horses even more, much to Leonie’s chagrin. He saddles the horse, ignoring its whinnying. But of course, Leonie doesn’t yield and she intervenes with hands on her hips.

 _“Hey—_ what do you think you’re doing? You can’t just put the saddle on the horse like _that,”_ Leonie groans. As she tries to wrestle the leather saddle off of the horse, they both hear another pair of footsteps run up on the gravel. Turning to look, it’s the boar. Felix grits his teeth.

“Dimitri—tell your friend here that he needs to put a pad or blanket or something undernea—”

“We are _not_ friends,” Felix bristles, jerking back the saddle from her. He tightens the girth, securing the saddle atop the mare. Slipping the bridle around the horse’s face, he notices the boar doing the same a few stalls down from him. Felix leads the animal out from its stall, ignoring all of Leonie’s protests.

He mounts his horse and trots it about the gravel outside the stable. The boar joins him, flipping his hair out of his eyes.

Felix scoffs. "Well? You coming with me or not?"

  
  
  


* * *

Byleth doesn’t know how long it’s been since she rode through Garreg Mach village. Because now she’s riding further into the forested areas around the monastery, barely to see the dirt road ahead as the pine trees shade the path with the dim glow of her lantern and the pale moonshine from the inky night sky.

She does know, however, that she needs to get to her father. Jeralt has to be around here somewhere with Alois and the handful of Knights they took on the patrol mission from Lady Rhea. Just the thought of it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth—the fact that he was sent away from Byleth and her mother. Did Rhea know? Is that why she sent her father out of the monastery—to spare him from the awful sight in that cathedral?

 _Or to spare herself from how angry father would be. He doesn’t trust her, and neither should I. Whatever she did to save me, left mother like_ that. _And left me like_ this. _No wonder father ran away from her. No wonder._

The tears are burning at Byleth’s eyes so much that she can barely keep her eyes anymore to peer through the darkness. Her grip loosens on the reins, and her horse seems to notice her grief as she clutches onto the horn of the saddle in a futile attempt to stay upright. It slows down to a gentle trot before Byleth slides off the side, crumpling on the ground—twigs and jagged pebbles digging into her knees.

She trembles like the pine needles in the cold breeze that pushes through the wood, barely able to take a full breath as the despair overwhelms. Byleth curls her hands into fists atop her thighs, teardrops falling to dampen the earth beneath her. 

In the beginning, Byleth thought she could shoulder it all given she’d lived it before. But she never lived _this…_ never once expected this. The cruel, sinking feeling as air is slowly stolen out of her lungs—the weight of this lifetime and the last… and ones far before her time… are now crushing her. _Not strong enough to carry this, to carry everyone,_ she laments.

“Miss!”

Byleth lifts her head at the sound of a small voice. Her vision is blurry from the tears, but she wipes them away with the back of her hand as she peers through the darkness at the figure standing before her.

“Miss, I’m finally going home,” the child tells her excitedly. Byleth blinks at the familiar brown hair tied back with purple ribbons and the clear lilac eyes staring back at her with an innocent wonder—different than the last time she had seen the little girl, when her eyes were frightened and cheerless.

The child paces toward her and closes the distance between them, bits of branches and fallen leaves crunching beneath her boots. She leans in and wraps her arms around Byleth, hugging her tightly. The knit of the girl’s red and pink scarf presses against her cheek in the embrace, blotting the tracks of tears there.

“I’m so happy. I get to go home now and see my father and brothers and sisters again,” the child speaks into the hair at Byleth’s shoulder. Weakly, she raises her arms to return the hug. The crimson tassels on the end of the girl’s scarf tickle against her skin. “Thank you for helping me, miss.”

The child pulls back from Byleth and gives her a tight-lipped, but warm smile.

“Come now, Edelgard. It's time to go,” another voice says, this one deeper and more refined. Byleth looks up and sees an imposing man with long brunette hair in a tailored coat—eyes cold as he stands with his hand outstretched for the small child. A chill washes over her at the familiar face.

When the child moves to walk away, Byleth wraps a gentle hand around the girl’s arm protectively, keeping her in place. She isn’t exactly sure what possesses her to do it, but she tugs the girl toward her, little boots scuffling on the dirt road. The wind howls, stinging her cheek while purple ribbons fluttering violently in the gale.

“Do… do you wish to stop?” Byleth whispers to the girl.

She looks up at her, face pink from the cold and matching the stitching on her scarf. Her pale lavender eyes are inculpable and impossibly wide, but delicate like saucers… like if handled wrong, they would shatter into a million pieces. The child’s chapped lips part slightly, her breath a puff of condensation in the air between them.

“No,” she says weakly. “There is no turning back now.” She frowns and casts her eyes downward before removing herself from Byleth’s hold.

“I… I hope we meet again someday, miss,” the child adds, looking over her shoulder. “Just like now, maybe our chosen paths will cross one more.” Slipping her small hand into the one of the intimidating man, the girl walks away with him into the dark and dense forest.

Byleth lets her own outstretched hand fall to her lap. She feels impossibly cold. And alone. It’s dizzying… but then numbing. Time passes slowly, if at all kneeling here in the middle of some forest beyond the monastery. Is she one mile away? Or ten? Did she take the valley west toward Magdred, or is she half-way to Varley?

If tears are back to falling down her face, she doesn’t know nor care. If her horse has wandered off, there’s no way she could tell. But at the moment she has that very thought, the gallop of horse hooves cut through the rustle of the trees around her.

“Byleth?” a voice calls for her. Not her father’s… not the child’s… _It matters little,_ she laments to herself. _Just… let me be. Let me go._ The jostle of someone dismounting the horse follows along with another call of her name. Boots crunch upon the fallen leaves as they draw nearer. A figure crouches down before her and grabs both of her shoulders in their hands. 

“Byleth,” the voice is cutting as it repeats itself again. They give her shoulders a shake, lowering their own head to make eye contact with her since hers was too heavy to lift. Through bleary and tired eyes, she realizes it’s Felix. Her feeble attempt at pulling away from him fails, for he holds her upright and in place. It doesn’t prevent her from trying, no matter how futile her attempts.

“Stop that, we’re getting you back to the monastery,” he chastises her like a parent would. She weakly protests nonetheless, refusing to cooperate. Her words don’t really come out as words, as they sound more or less like broken whimpers. “Father… mother…”

“We can’t find your father with you here like this—”

“But the _child…_ left…” she blubbers to an increasingly persistent Felix.

“What in the goddess are you rambling on about?” he scolds her, shaking his head.

His horse whinnies and shuffles in the brush, causing Felix to stand up straight and reach reflexively for his sword. There’s a metallic scrape of his blade leaving the scabbard as he places a steady hand atop her head. She hears him tell her to stay put—despite the fact that she was not going anywhere to begin with. After that, she hears the clash of swords behind her. Unmoving and detached, she doesn’t even flinch. The scuffle of bootsteps creates a rhythm akin to a waltz, except this one is punctuated with the crumple of a body on the ground.

Before she has a moment to sigh at the end of such a mournful song, there’s a hand curling around her shoulder. This time more forceful as it yanks on the fabric of her shirt, willing her to rise.

“They’re here, Byleth, so come _on!”_ Felix urges, his breathing coming quicker now. When she won’t rise, he grumbles as he crouches down before her. “Look, I’ll drag you out of here if I have to, but I’m _begging_ you to—”

The sound that leaves the swordsman is one of surprise—a little puff of breath that sounds more like an _“oh”_ than anything. If Byleth had actually raised her head to look at Felix, she likely would have seen the crimson attire and cold steel plates of armor of the Flame Emperor’s soldiers. She would have seen the blade before it drove into Felix, maybe even had done something to stop it. The sword makes a wet sound as Felix falls forward slightly into Byleth, and finally she moves to catch him.

“Captain—come look at this,” a voice calls out.

She can feel the warmth soaking through the front of his shirt and vest as it presses against her. The sound of other pairs of footsteps joining, approaching through the fringes of the clearing. “Fuck, shame you killed that one,” a gravelly voice says, more distant than the one with the blade. “His blood would’ve been useful.” Byleth can’t see through the fog and darkness at who the voice belongs to. And that does little to help Felix who is now leaning entirely into her.

“Byleth,” he rasps. She sucks in a breath and starts trembling under the weight of him. “Please… I don’t…”

The other soldiers begin to close in on them, seeming to relish in the tableau before them based on their laughter—or, at least the chuckling from the same voice that spoke last. Byleth can discern that much. “And that _is_ her— _that fucking professor.”_

She can feel and hear Felix struggling for a breath, wet crimson damp on her cheek as he draws himself as near as he can. “Go… back…” he coughs. “Don’t let me… I don’t… want to…”

Then, the swordsman stills. Her eyes widen in a sudden, jarring moment of clarity. She wraps an arm around Felix to prop him up at her eye level, but her hand meets blood that’s thick and still warm, starting to congeal around the tear in the fabric. Her fingers begin to tremor. Looking upon his face in the darkness, the small moonbeams filtering through the treetops, Felix looks empty. His eyes haunt her like they did back on the cobblestone streets in Fraldarius territory in her last lifetime… except this time, there’s no healers to give him any courtesy. No one to politely close his eyelids.

And instead of his father weeping and howling out in the face of crushing grief… it’s only Byleth.

Except she’s already been crying, and she doesn’t wail his name. With shaking arms and punishing regret, she clutches him tightly to her instead. An act of solidarity, of protection.

And a promise left unsaid as the dark forest around is awash in ultraviolet scintillations.

The next time she hears him call out her name as he dismounts his horse, she rises immediately, albeit on shaky knees. But she pours all of her focus into putting one foot in front of the other. This time, she’s agreeable and cooperative. She tells him that there’s Flame Emperor soldiers out in the wood and that they need to leave now.

But as she tries to tell Felix this, his expression looks equal parts confused and alarmed. He’s shaking his head and furrowing his brow like he doesn’t follow what she’s telling him. Byleth frustratedly tries to repeat herself, but he cuts her off.

“Look, you’re really starting to freak me out here,” Felix tells her, uncharacteristically grim. “We need to get you back to Manuela—”

Byleth protests. She tells him for the third time, the fourth, and the _fifth._ Eventually, she abandons the effort all together and tries to hoist herself up on the back of his horse after she can’t find hers anywhere. Felix practically yanks her away from the saddle, his amber eyes intent as he scolds her yet again. Byleth isn’t sure what for—it’s not like he’s listening to her anyway.

And after a moment, the swordsman’s mouth is moving without making any sound at all. It’s like her ears are stuffed with wool or he’s intentionally playing this cruel prank on her, but she doubts it’s either… _especially_ not the latter given the crimson clad soldiers begin appearing from the edge of the small clearing. Felix draws his sword and engages with the one, while Byleth fumbles with the Sword of the Creator in anticipation of the others not far behind.

She meets one of the soldiers at the edge of the dirt path, and holds them off, but with great difficulty. The Sword feels foreign in her hand, and at one point Byleth begins to panic when she sees another foe appear right beside the other, both of them poised to strike. Terrified, she raises her sword arm and blade to shield herself from the incoming attacks—a move pathetic enough that her father should surely laugh at if he were here to witness it.

Instead, it’s Felix who sees it—and swoops in to finish the pair off in one singular swing of his blade. Lowering her elbow, she can see him making words at her again without sound. While his canines are bared like he’s angry, he instead looks… frightened. Byleth shakes her head at him and drops her gaze to the lone body that lay at their feet—blood spilt on the ground beneath their armor. Even after squinting, all she sees is the one.

In her confusion, she rubs her eyes with the back of her knuckles and then blinks at the sole body splayed out on the dirt before them. _Wasn’t there two of them?_ she thinks tiredly to herself. Studying the back of her hand absent-mindedly, she notices that the pale white of the back of her hand is painted scarlet. She hums to herself.

Felix is now yelling at her—she can hear the timbre of his voice as a muffled droning. It’s like she’s underwater and everything around her is muffled and she’s drowning. Byleth staggers, the water only becoming more difficult to wade through. There’s a flash of red hair and a blurry vision of a man on horseback.

* * *

He notices Byleth collapse out of the corner of his eye, but there is nothing he can do about it when he’s locked swords with this stupid Flame Emperor dastard. Psycho Church cardinal betrays everyone and hijacks Byleth’s mom, transfigures into an unholy beast that nearly collapses the cathedral… and then Byleth runs away, no thanks to Lady Rhea, and after an hour of trailing her in the darkness with the boar, he loses his House leader and finds her. Except she can’t even string together two words that make any sense, much less stand upright. 

Felix had to step in so she wouldn’t get herself killed, for fuck’s sake. He had seen her defeat countless enemies... two, _three_ men at a time in combat… towering demonic beasts, even… but she couldn’t even hold her own against one of these thugs. _Goddess damn me. Could this night get any worse?_

“You go take care of the girl—leave her alive. And keep your eyes out for other Academy brats,” a voice echoes out from the fringe of the forest clearing. “Leave _this_ one to me.” There’s hardly a chance for Felix to blink before a scarred face shows itself before him, upper lip curled up in a feral smile. Their blades cross, and he stares up at familiar brown eyes and shaggy red hair.

Miklan Gautier disengages only to cut his sword down again on a much shorter and unprepared Felix.

_Yes, apparently it could get worse. Because it has become… much, much worse._

Between the furious onslaught from Miklan and the sound of Dimitri rearing his horse and sight of a Flame Emperor soldier hooking their arms under Byleth's shoulders, Felix cursed himself. This situation was bad. Real bad. He had somehow forgotten how strong the elder Gautier could be.

It had been years ago when they had last sparred, back before Duscur and before him being disowned by the Margrave. And, of course, it had been but only two moons since his escape from Conand. Miklan hadn't changed much since either of those times—still an asshole and yet still incredibly more capable in combat than anyone ever gave him credit for. And the fact that he found his way to the Flame Emperor makes Felix’s stomach turn. His vertical advantage provides more weight behind his blade when it cuts through the air, the lethal blade hissing through the air with menace.

Felix can barely counter for longer than a second without disengaging. Each time he parries, he's astounded that with how badly the weapon rings in his hand, his opponent hasn't cut clean through the silver.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Byleth's limp and comatose body being hoisted up by these dastards… and Dimitri’s lance impaling one of them from behind before they can take her any further. Wordlessly, he thanks the goddess and all of the Saints that he finally turned up. And normally he's repulsed by the prince's ruthless and bloodthirsty disregard on the battlefield, but if it means they have any chance at all of getting both of them and Byleth out of this tangle alive, then Dimitri can embrace the boar all he wants.

But despite Dimitri dragging the Professor back to safety, and effortlessly crushing another soldier while doing it, the commotion and clash of weaponry seems to have signaled for reinforcements. Another handful of soldiers crunch through the forest brush into the small clearing. Miklan growls at anyone who tries to inject themselves into his duel with Felix, which keeps Felix alive for another minute longer…

But causes Dimitri to be overrun with at least seven men, with more coming. If he wasn't trying to protect Byleth who is helpless... if they all weren't so exhausted after everything, and it wasn't so dark, maybe he could have slaughtered them all like the mad boar he is. Felix can't see what's happening, but he can hear that Dimitri is losing. He's sparred with him enough times in this life to know when he's at his limit…

...and he's now past it. Felix is, too—he can barely parry anymore, much less try to land his own strike on Miklan.

Earlier, Felix thought they would die. He thought he'd be crushed by the umbral beast beside three of his least favorite people. Little did he know the goddess spared him for this. Unable to protect his liege, his stupid old friend, and himself.

And without Byleth, there is no chance for them. No chance in this fight, nor to turn back…

Without her, there’s no chance that—

The sudden crashing of a falling tree and the splintering of trunks causes everyone to pause—and for Felix, it's enough time for him to disengage and sprint over to Dimitri and Byleth. He guts one of the soldiers while he pushes past them, gouging the other one in the thigh. It startles Dimitri enough to lance a third one in the moment of confusion as the ground begins to vibrate beneath their feet.

An inhuman growl tears through the night air as a clawed foot large enough to squash a horse—or any of them, for that matter—steps forward into the clearing. Branches snap and fall down onyx scales as the monstrous creature makes its presence known. Felix sees Miklan gape, then be the first to retreat, a few of his men wise enough to follow him through the wood. The beast grumbles and bears its teeth threateningly, appearing to sneer at them, its vocalizations a subsonic rumble.

In a last ditch effort, one of the Flame Emperor soldiers slips past Dimitri and tries to lift Byleth up on his shoulder. The prince pivots, his face written with fury. He moves to chase after, faltering only once after someone's blade cuts into his bicep. It would have been enough, the half-second the Flame Emperor scum needed to steal away into the darkness… if the beast didn't lower its head to smile down upon them with, hot breath rumbling from the back of its throat.

The soldier drops Byleth in favor of his own life, letting her tumble to the ground as he skitters away. Dimitri is just a beat behind, practically throwing himself over her to protect her from the beast’s maw. Felix’s breath catches in his throat, sheer terror flooding his veins at the sight and how utterly and pathetically helpless he is from several yards away.

"Byleth!" he screams, his voice cracking and raw and bleeding. _"Turn back!"_

She doesn’t look in his direction—doesn’t even seem to move. The entire world seems to screech to a halt as the realization sets in that there is no turning back. There’s no undoing this; no divine miracle to intervene to save her or the prince.

Steaming hot breaths pant over the two of them, and Dimitri meets Felix’s eyes as he guards Byleth’s body with his own. The boar gives him one last fleeting, apologetic smile.

Just when he feels crippled by the thought of seeing her and Dimitri eaten alive, the beast hisses and raises its head. It stretches its neck back and howls woefully to the stars in the sky above them. The remaining Flame Emperor soldiers scream and scatter into the wood, leaving just the three of them and the beast.

Astonishingly, the monster shuffles away from them, seemingly disinterested. Dimitri wastes no time, scooping up Byleth and nearly tripping over himself carrying her back to the horses. Felix intercepts them, one hand brushing against her teal hair and the prince's shoulder and they pass him. Felix readies Dimitri’s horse first, steadying the skittish animal before taking a very debilitated Byleth from him so he can mount it.

In that moment, Felix regards her as his tired muscles ache holding her up.

"She's bleeding," he observes, fingertips hovering over her nose, too afraid to touch. Growling past his hesitation, he tries to clear her nose, only for more to gush forth. _"Badly."_

Dimitri grunts in acknowledgement and motions for her; Felix helps him lift her onto his steed. Positioned in front, the prince has to wrap an arm around her middle to keep her upright. He tears a piece of fabric from his cobalt cape and presses it delicately as he can manage to her nosebleed. "I'll try to staunch the bleeding," he says.

Felix takes the cue and mounts his own horse before following Dimitri out of the clearing and away from the beast whose growls and roars grow more faint as they fade into the distance. His heart is still hammering in his chest and his hands are trembling on the reins. With each hoove hitting the dirt path, he wishes they could be back at the monastery already, if only for Byleth’s sake.

He watches Dimitri struggle to hold her up and guide his horse at the same time… and with each moment that passes that her arms hang limply at her side, Felix grows more and more anxious.

"Byleth, _please,"_ he whispers to himself. Or to the goddess, or as a prayer to _whoever._ He's _never_ been one to beg, but now is as good a time as any to start, he supposes—when he's on the verge of stupid tears that burn at the corners of his eyes and the weight of Byleth's entire mission pressing down on his shoulders. "Please… I don't… Don't let me…see you..."

  
  
  


* * *

The sunrise eases gently into the sky, the radiant glow bleeding into the inky darkness like a soft embrace. It peeks through the pine needles and delicate clouds—gently calling to the land of Fódlan like mother would to her child.

And in that moment, Marianne is cast in crimson, bathed in the sunrise’s rosy glow. As she rubs the sleep from her eyes as they open to frost from the cool autumn night, she regards the sun… how the goddess gifts Fódlan a glorious new dawn each morning without the asking or earning of its light. She sees her breath rise upward to the heavens and suppresses a shiver.

She sits up gingerly, her back and arms still achy from the night before. Silently, she wraps her arms around herself for modesty and for warmth on this particularly brisk morning. The trees, the florid orange and purple sky, the birds and their morrow song… even as broken in spirit as she is, no one can admire and cherish the beauty of nature more than Marianne.

The beauty of this morning, however, is stained with the littering of torn limbs and pieces of steel armor. A quaint flock of crows feast upon bits of flesh nestled in the fallen leaves and brush of the wood. Marianne covers her breasts with her arm as she rises on unsteady feet—the crows shrieking at her as she interrupts their foul meal—and while she knows the men around her are dead and cannot look upon her, she shyly conceals herself regardless.

Tiptoeing around the clearing, she inspects the corpses for any bit of fabric or clothing that is still intact. She finds a crimson tunic that has a tear in the arm and the waist—it’s stained, but it’s large enough that it will fit like a dress on her, she thinks. Kneeling down, bits of twig digging into the bare skin of her knees, she murmurs a prayer to the goddess as she removes the pieces of armor and pulls the tunic from the lifeless corpse that is cold underneath her fingertips.

“May you rest in the arms of the goddess,” she whispers, “who formed you from the dust of the earth and the light of the heavens.”

She tugs the tunic over her head and tries her best to ignore the stench of death that clings to the fabric. The tear in the arm isn’t noticeable or bothersome, but the one at the waist falls to her hip. Marianne fusses with it for a minute too long before resigning—it will have to do, at least until she can make it to the village and find a more suitable set of clothes before returning to the monastery.

Her bare feet press onto the cool earth as Marianne follows the dirt path opposite the sunrise—west, to the monastery towering in the distance. She doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage and misery behind her, but it weighs heavily on her mind and heart with each step.

Raising her eyes to the watercolor hues painted in the sky above… and the sliver of moon still lingering in the darker part of the heavens like a whisper or a ghost.

She halts mid-step.

“It wasn’t a full moon,” she breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀
> 
> 🎵 [Listen to the *updated* playlist for Slings & Arrows here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5uhJA6V43ClEGJe6RsBOAB?si=cdNGCGMUQD60BOrEz2cpdA) 🎵


	15. Temperance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri and Felix come to an agreement. Mercedes and Constance both reunite with old friends. Edelgard is a bad liar. Marianne enjoys a cup of tea. Hubert asks for help. Byleth is under the watchful eye of Lady Rhea. Linhardt and Caspar share a dance. Seteth is the one assigned homework, for a change.
> 
> “You think I’ll weep? No, I’ll not weep. I have full cause of weeping, but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, Or e’re I’ll weep—O Fool, I shall go mad.”  
>  _-King Lear, 2.4.279-283_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! 👋 It's been a while, hasn't it? But never fear, I'm back with a behemoth of a chapter. I felt bad leaving last chapter with so many "cliffhangers"--so hopefully this chapter resolves most of them. (And maybe adds a few new ones 😉) In the meantime, I did start a few series of drabbles within the same AU/series as this fic! They're some Yuri/Felix flashbacks and vignettes for a series of prompts on Twitter for Yuri Rare Pair Week. Feel free to go check out those drabbles [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28895028/chapters/70886826)
> 
> Also, this chapter was beta'd by my partner, [Telsiree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telsiree), who is my sunshine and the person I geek out with over Fire Emblem at all hours of the day. ❤️ Please go check out their work!

Dawn is breaking in the distance as Felix and Dimitri reach the monastery gates, the faint glow creeping up on the horizon behind the trees and mountains beyond the dirt road. The prince hardly slows down the pace of his steed when they close the distance to the southern entrance—not that he needs to stop and wait for the gatekeeper to clear them and open the massive wooden doors.

Even in the scant amount of daylight and the pitiful glow from his lantern, Felix can see the doors have been all but obliterated—splintered and broken, leaving the impression that the monastery had been ransacked.

_ Dear goddess,  _ Felix thinks to himself as the two Blue Lions ride through what’s left of the entrance… passing by the litter of dead Knights on their way into the monastery, the marketplace in a state of complete disaster in the wake of some sort of attack. A sinking feeling settles in the pit of his stomach at the sight, because even if a bunch of the Flame Emperor’s dark mages escaped from the Mausoleum after Aelfric’s little experiment went sideways… none of these bodies they saw looked like they’d been blasted by dark magic.

The bodies were quite literally mauled and crushed to death—evidenced by torn limbs and entrails strewn about the gravel of the marketplace.

But as dire and desolate as the scene around them is, both his and Dimitri’s main priority is Byleth. Felix rears his horse following Dimitri and dismounts as the prince gingerly cradles an unconscious Byleth to his chest. He can see that the bleeding from her nose hasn’t stopped, despite Dimitri doing his best to staunch it during the entire ride back. The blood-soaked piece of his cape drops quickly to the ground, completely saturated and heavy with crimson wetness.

“Let’s get her to the infirmary,” Dimitri mutters as he takes what’s left of his torn azure cape and presses it delicately as he can manage to Byleth’s nose. Felix nods, his eyes shifting from his house leader’s face to Byleth’s. He swallows at how pale and lifeless her face has become, stained with crimson rivulets and smudges that glisten even in the low light…

...But then Felix nearly bites down on his tongue when her indigo eyes fly open—staring back at him wild and horrified.

“By—”

“No,” she croaks, her body stirring to life in Dimitri’s arms. It startles the prince, too—Felix can see his steps stutter and his arms tighten around her… but then Byleth begins thrashing in his embrace, grabbing fistfuls of his uniform and trying to tear herself free from him. “No, no, no,  _ no!” _

Her voice grows more hysterical as she stirs up into a whirlwind of panic. Dimitri eventually loses his hold on her, but before she can slip away from him entirely, he grabs onto her arm to stop her from running.

“Byleth, please… we need to take you to the infirmary,” Dimitri pleads with her, his voice cracking as he tugs her toward his broad frame.

She practically hisses at him like a caged animal, yanking her arm free and reaching for the Sword of the Creator still on her hip. “No!” she repeats again, her voice dry as she screams back at the prince. “No, ‘m not… going…”

Dimitri raises his hands up in a gesture of surrender as he stares down the glowing Relic that she has raised between them. Felix decides to step forward as well to try and get close enough to calm her, to reason with her… but she flinches and takes a threatening step toward him with the blade. Felix swallows hard, but doesn’t back down. He maintains a stoic expression as he cautiously steps toward her with hands raised.

“Look, you’re not in good shape, Byleth,” he tells her as firmly yet gently as he can muster. “You need a healer.” Her eyes flash dangerously at Felix, and for a moment he’s worried that Byleth is now too far gone for him to reach her. 

“I already  _ told _ you,” she clamors, her agitation building. “You will not take me there. Not back to  _ her.” _

Felix meets her frenzied stare for a long moment, trying desperately to bite back the fear simmering inside of him so not to let it show on his face. Her current state is unsettling, to say the least… feral and manic, dissociated from the Byleth he had come to know over the past several moons. He has come to know her as a woman who is far more than just an experienced mercenary with exceptional skill with a blade—a fiercely loyal ally to justice and welfare for all, albeit stubborn as a mule, a divine oracle of kindness and mercy even to those who are less than deserving… a beacon of hope, a light that he wishes to follow as she cuts a path to a brighter world.

But before him now, that light Felix so admires is fading.

He’s noticed her light flickering for a while now… and he wants to kick and scream and curse at the heavens for not doing something more much earlier. Today was too much for her to bear alone. And though he and Dimitri plead with her to calm down and accept help, Byleth does not relent as she points the Sword of the Creator at the two of them.

“Byleth, listen to me,” he begs her with as steady of a voice as he can muster. He watches her arms tremble while holding the Sword. “I promise I won’t take you back to her.”  _ It’s only a half lie,  _ he tells himself. He needs to get her to a healer… now… but all of the nearest healers are within the monastery walls—with Lady Rhea. The reason for her objection.

Her upper lips twitches and curls up, Sword still raised on the defensive as Felix paces toward her slowly as not to frighten her.

“Then why did you bring me here? I was trying to find my father—”

“Byleth, do you not remember?” Dimitri chimes in. The blonde prince doesn’t move from his spot behind Felix, but her thorny gaze flicks over to him.  _ Shut the fuck up, _ Dimitri… he thinks dourly to himself as his house leader prattles on. “You were critically injured after we were ambushed out in the forest by rogues and a black beast and… Mik—”

“Your father is here at the monastery,” Felix interrupts loudly. Dimitri gives him a critical look and opens his mouth to object—but he shuts it when the swordsman shoots a pleading and icy glare back.  _ Another lie, I know, _ he thinks, trying to convey his sentiment wordlessly through his expression,  _ but necessary. So shut up and let me do the talking, Dimitri. _ Mostly because he knows that she doesn’t remember what transpired back in the forest, and while Dimitri doesn’t know who those soldiers were… Byleth would, though, and that would only accomplish the opposite of calming her in any capacity.

“My father... is here?” she asks weakly, her stance softening slightly. A few more drops of blood roll down her upper lip to drip off of her chin.

Felix nods and takes a few more measured steps toward her now that the Sword wasn’t glowing and vicious between them. He hates lying to her like this—he doesn’t know where in the fuck Captain Jeralt is… but if she can believe that he’s here long enough for him and Dimitri to find her a healer, then the guilt will be worth it.

“Yes, he is. Dimitri and I will bring you to see him,” he assures her. After a long moment, Byleth nods weakly. She’s shaking like the red and orange leaves on the trees, shuddering like prairie grass and dry pine needles in the gale—now even worse than she was back in the forest. Tentatively, Felix reaches out and touches his fingertips to the top of the ivory blade in her hands—a gesture to tell her that  _ it’s okay, you’re safe with us, let us help you.  _ And it takes almost no effort for him to lower her weapon with just a gentle push of his hand, though the calloused pads of his fingers burn sharply at the contact with the Relic. He bites back a yelp and recoils his hand as quickly as possible.

The tip of the Sword of the Creator falls to the ground and Byleth has to hold onto it with two hands, using the blade as a crutch to keep her upright. All of her previous furor appears to melt away right before his eyes, her frenzy giving way to extreme fatigue. Felix moves in quickly to help catch her before she crumples to the ground before them—he can hear Dimitri do the same just a step or two behind him. They help lower her to a kneeling position.

“Don’t worry, we’ve got you,” Felix says as her tremoring hands reach for his and Dimitri’s forearms. She mumbles something before dropping the Sword of the Creator on the ground before her and slumping forward onto Felix’s shoulder. He regards her heavy eyelids and the crimson dampness that is now pressed into the white fabric of his shirt as her breaths come in shallow.

“Felix, I will carry her to the infirmary, and you can bring the Sword of the Cre—”

_ “No way  _ I’m touching that thing again without gloves,” Felix growls back, flexing his bare fingers before Dimitri to illustrate his point. “You still have yours, so you grab the Sword. I’ll carry the Professor, but we can’t take her to the infirmary.”

Clearing his throat, he accepts Byleth’s full weight and lifts her as carefully as he can manage—unintentionally catching eyes with Dimitri as he does it. He quickly looks away, his face burning with embarrassment at the feeling of his right arm tucked underneath her legs. Hopefully it’s dark enough so that the prince doesn’t see it. “Quit being so possessive,” he grumbles under his breath, but the blonde probably hears it anyway.

“No, no…” Dimitri says, shaking his head and stooping down to pick up the Sword. “I only meant… well, nevermind. Where do you propose we take her other than the infirmary? Her quarters? I assume you have someone in mind to heal her.”

Felix hums. He hasn’t thought that far ahead. Based on the state of the monastery and the aftermath of the Umbral Beast… every available healer must be in the infirmary. But perhaps he could borrow Mercedes—she’s really the only one he deems trustworthy enough to help in this situation.

“If we take her to her quarters, and Seteth and Rhea will come looking for her,” Felix disagrees.

Dimitri rubs his nose with the back of his free hand. “My quarters, then.”

“Until someone finds out she’s in there. And then what, prince? Have it soil your reputation?” he says bitingly. “Let’s bring her to my quarters. Better I get in trouble than you.”

The blonde is agreeable to that, at least. He nods and the two of them head off to the dormitories—not even bothering to return their horses to the stables, instead taking advantage of the last few remaining moments of semi-darkness before the dawn fully illuminates the sky. There’s a few students congregating over by the doors to the training grounds, thankfully nowhere near the stairs up to the second floor. Felix follows Dimitri closely behind, pausing only to fish out his room key from his pocket and toss it to him.

He arranges Byleth on his bed while Dimitri descends back downstairs to find Dedue and enlist him in running errands and finding a healer—both of which he accomplishes in no time at all. The tall Duscur man returns with a basin of hot water and an armful of concoctions, bandages, and other supplies so that Mercedes and Dimitri, who both follow closely behind him, don't have to carry anything.

Felix turns to face them, and his eyes immediately travel to the large splotches of blood soaked fabric on Mercedes’ skirts. The expression he made must have been obvious or something, because the healer walks past the two men and straight up to Felix, resting a small hand gently on his elbow. “Don’t worry, Felix. This isn’t mine,” she murmurs to him, motioning to the stains.

“She cannot be gone from the infirmary for long,” Dedue announces, setting down the basin on Felix’s desk against the opposite wall. He regards the prince’s dishevelled appearance with a concerned frown on his face. “Shall I fetch a clean pair of clothes for you, too, your Highness? You as well, Mercedes…”

Dimitri agrees with a mumble and a quick thanks, though he doesn’t look up from an unconscious and still-bleeding Byleth on the bed. It’s been a long time since he has looked like he was near tears. Mercedes shakes her head and declines. “Thank you, Dedue… but I won’t have much time to stop and change,” she laughs softly, but without her usual warm smile and disposition. The scene before them—what they had all experienced in the cathedral just hours ago, and what she’s unaware of what happened in the forest—is too harrowing and dire to simply deflect with a smile and laugh.

Dedue nods and excuses himself from the room, closing the door behind him. Mercedes rolls up her sleeves and dunks her hands in the basin of water, dampening a cloth and wringing out the excess before moving back to the Professor’s side. Her face scrunches up a bit once she gets a closer look at the blood flowing through the dirt and soot on Byleth’s face—now devoid of its usual rosy hue, paler than chalk. Blotting at the crimson beginning to dry and congeal around her nose and mouth, Mercedes lays a hand on the back of her forehead. She hums to herself thoughtfully, the corners of her lips turning down ever-so-slightly.

“She has a fever... But I don’t see any bruising,” she whispers, a glow of white magic emitting from her hands as they hover a few inches above Byleth’s face. “And I don’t sense that her nose is broken… how long has it been bleeding like this?”

“Since back in the forest,” the boar answers her before he can. “So over an hour. If not two.”

Mercedes blinks, her brow furrowing ever so slightly when she presses her fingers against Byleth’s jaw and neck. “I see. The Professor wasn’t injured, then? Not even… back at the cathedral?” Both men shake their heads. “When did she lose consciousness?”

“The first time was back in the forest, too. Around the same time her nose… yeah,” Felix trails off. “But once we got Byl—the Professor—back to the monastery, she woke up and was about to swing her sword at us if we took her to the infirmary. But then…”

“She fainted again?”

“Yes,” he mumbles. His amber eyes study the way the spell illuminates Byleth’s ashen complexion and the purplish dark circles beneath her eyes, the blood from her nose slowing now, steady but surely as Mercedes continues to heal.

“What else happened in the forest?” Mercedes asks firmly, but quiet as a mouse.

With a sigh, he runs his hand through the loose pieces of raven hair framing his face—it’s then that he realizes that  _ he’s  _ shaking. It’s not like he can tell her about the Flame Emperor’s men. Or about Miklan. She’s too close with Sylvain, and though she would never tell him with malicious intent… the truth would only end up hurting their friend. The mysterious black beast that they encountered would only cause her needless worry, and there’s  _ no way _ he could tell her—or Dimitri, who’s standing right here with them—about the overwhelming and foreboding feeling he had that she had used her divine powers to jump back… and now that every time she does that, she gets sick. But never as badly as she is now.

“Felix?” she asks, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Uh,” he manages, still trying to come up with what to say… or what not to. “She had run off, you know. I found her first, and we were ambushed. She was trying to tell me something, I think… but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. Like, she was yelling and speaking words, but none of them made any sense.” Felix suppresses a chill at the frightening memory.

“Then it got worse. She couldn’t even fight back, Mercedes… She’s not herself,” he finishes, exasperated.

Mercedes gives a little nod, and wraps her hands around one of Byleth’s, cupping her hand and wrist in her gasp. She frowns once more at the contact, but white light glows as she continues to heal… whatever it is that’s wrong with her.

“Thank the goddess that you two were there to help her,” she murmurs eventually, lowering Byleth’s arm back down to the bed. Mercedes leans over the bed and pulls up the covers. “I’ve seen this sort of thing happen before, back in my old church in Fhirdiad. Some of elderly monks and bishops would suddenly be unable to recite scripture or speak, and then they would lose control of their limbs—usually just on one side,” she explains, tucking the linens snugly under Byleth’s sides to keep her warm. “I’ve never seen this happen before with someone as young as the Professor, though.”

Dimitri grips the bedpost tightly, nearly splintering it in his grasp. He breathes in sharply, catching both Felix and Mercedes’ attention as they look up at him. “But you healed her, yes? Like you healed the monks and bishops?”

Mercedes walks over to the prince and raises her hand to his bicep where the fabric is torn and bloody from the sword of one of the Flame Emperor’s soldiers. The deep crease in Dimitri’s forehead softens slightly as she heals his injury. “I did the best I could back then at the church. Sometimes our magic worked, and other times we were too late, I think,” she smiles sadly.

The prince stiffens and his eyes darken—and for a split second, Felix is afraid that he’ll snap and break something or worse, hurt her… someone who is only trying to help. Dimitri takes a gauntleted hand and grabs onto Mercedes’ forearm, and Felix steps forward with a hand quick to find the pommel of his sword just in case.

“But for  _ her,”  _ he presses, his voice thick with emotion. “Your magic worked in time for  _ her?” _

Mercedes takes her free hand and places it atop Dimitri’s hand, rubbing the back of it comfortingly despite the steel armor there. Felix has the same question and fear as Dimitri, of course… his eyes flitting over to the unconscious face of Byleth, her nose finally no longer bleeding. What state would she be in after all of this?

“I cannot say right now, Dimitri. Forgive me,” she says as gently as she can muster. “But please, do not fret. I’ll visit when I am able before then, both to check on her and keep her healing. And both you and Felix will watch over her until she wakes, so she will be safe and in good company. Let’s not borrow trouble until she’s awake and speaking to us again, okay?”

This is enough to placate Dimitri, at least for the moment, as his grip on Mercedes loosens enough for her to pull away and turn to inspect Felix for injuries, healing little cuts and bruises along his knuckles and one on his cheek. Her words give Felix that sinking feeling again, this time it’s in his chest and it feels like he can’t get a full breath of air. He wants to be optimistic—for the obvious reason, but also for keeping Dimitri level-headed enough.

Yet he cannot help but dread what the outcome of this night will be for Byleth.

“Don’t tell anyone that she’s here,” Felix warns Mercedes. “Not even Annie. Got it?”

“Ah, yes. Dedue told me… Your secret's safe with me,” she replies, before dropping her voice to a whisper. “Just as you have kept mine safe, too.”

Felix blinks.  _ Oh, that. _

Mercedes excuses herself back to the infirmary where she is sorely needed; she tells them briefly in leaving that there were other monsters that sprung up around the monastery while they all were in the cathedral.  _ That explains the littering of dead monks and Knights around the grounds,  _ Felix thinks to himself,  _ though it is odd that there wasn’t a body of a beast to be found, at least that he could see. _

He paces over toward the cabinets under his window, lifting himself up to sit atop them. The muscles in his legs are painfully tight as he folds them into a seated position; he crosses his arms and leans back against the cool stone wall, the draft from the windows above tickling the nape of his neck. Dimitri, on the other hand, takes a long time hovering over Byleth, brushing the hair back from her forehead and just staring at her and willing her to wake up and tell them she’s alright.

Dedue returns with a change of clothes for him, along with two plates of food, for which Felix is grateful. He informs them that he’ll keep watch outside of his dorm room for unwanted visitors and snooping folks… Seteth and Lady Rhea, especially. For as annoying his blind loyalty to Dimitri is, Felix cannot help but feel a bit of appreciation for Dedue’s stalwart help now. At least they can all work together to give Byleth what she wanted—distance from the archbishop.

If only Captain Jeralt could show up—he’d bring him to her side immediately if it would please her. But for now, he and Dimitri wait and watch for signs of Byleth stirring. That’s all they can do, at this point. Finally, though, the prince leaves the bedside and slides down to sit on the floor across from her.

Felix doesn’t have many words for Dimitri, and it seems the inverse is true as well. They sit in uncomfortable silence for a long time, watching as the morning sun rises higher into the sky and brightens the room through the windows. He has long since devoured his own meal, but Dimitri has just picked at the food that Dedue had brought for them.

“You need to eat,” he reminds the prince. “You also need to sleep. You’ve been up for over a day and you look like shit.”

Dimitri grumbles quietly to himself, dragging his knees up to his chest and resting his forearms atop them. “You have been up just as long. And I’m not hungry.”

“If you don’t eat, you die,” Felix mutters. “And you have to sleep. We’ll take shifts staying up, deal? I’ll even go first.” Dimitri lowers his eyes away from Felix and back to Byleth’s unmoving form on the bed, refusing to answer. Felix shakes his head.  _ This is going to be harder than I thought. _

“Fine, you take the first shift if you’re gonna be that way,” he continues, louder this time. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall behind him, his own bones aching from the long day and a half. The second his eyes flutter shut, he’s ready to accept sleep as a welcome distraction from his worry, but he has one last card to play before resting. “Look—just eat your fucking food and stop complaining.  _ She _ would want you to.”

Silence follows for a beat until he hears the scraping of the plate on the floorboards. The faint sounds of chewing confirm that Dimitri actually listened to him and is taking care of himself. Felix isn’t sure how much time passes next—if it’s thirty seconds or thirty minutes… but Dimitri speaks finally, rousing him.

“I did not know she was in that poor of a condition,” he tells him. Felix doesn’t respond, but the house leader’s words weigh heavily on his shoulders… haunting him. “Who were those men, anyway? Back in the forest.”

Felix cracks an eye open to look down at Dimitri and huffs. “Surely you recognized their uniforms,” he prompts. But he only shakes his head in response, his blonde hair looking stringy after a long night of combat and battle. “From down in Abyss? And at the abandoned chapel?”

“Oh, yes… I see,” Dimitri nods, tightening his hands over his kneecaps. “I’ve heard others say their uniform belongs to this Flame Emperor that you, Byleth, and Seteth encountered last moon. The one who ordered Flayn and Annette to be kidnapped.”

Felix shrinks into himself at the ominous tone creeping into Dimitri’s voice. “Yeah…”

“You’ve seen this Flame Emperor, have you not?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?” Felix snaps, both of his eyes now wide open and fixed on the brooding prince.

“Because,” Dimitri grimaces, “I’ll need you to point him out to me the next time we find ourselves on the same field of battle. He will pay for what he did. To Byleth… to everyone.”

Felix doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing  _ to _ say. It’s not like he doesn’t feel the same—and he knows the true extent of the Flame Emperor’s power and plots. He knows that in another lifetime, Byleth had seen the Flame Emperor sow the seeds of war that claimed the lives of so many… even Dimitri’s.

But he promised to follow Byleth in her mission. And she is adamant that the Flame Emperor— _ Edelgard _ —is but a pawn in a much larger game of chess. That she and her family have fallen victim to terrible things he’s not sure he wants to learn about. While he’s reluctant to believe that someone can be coerced into becoming a warmongering emperor… Felix trusts Byleth with all that he is.

He doesn’t doubt the depth of the prince’s feelings toward Byleth… but he does doubt that they would override his lust for revenge. Especially if Dimitri were to know the truth of the Flame Emperor.

“I’m going to sleep now. Wake me in a few hours,” Felix mutters.

“Wait, Felix—” Dimitri stops him. “I have something else that I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

He restrains himself from rolling his eyes at the blonde prince, instead opening his eyes once more to peer down at him. “Well? Spit it out, already.”

“Why did you ask her to turn back? What did you mean by that?”

Felix just stares at Dimitri for a long moment, staring into those confused and guileless blue eyes, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t even take a breath the entire time. He doesn’t want to be reminded of how he was absolutely certain that both the prince and Byleth were going to be devoured or crushed or worse by that stupid beast back in the forest. But in that moment he felt so helpless and he was frantic and  _ why did you say anything at all, you fucking idiot, _ he curses himself.  _ You were so desperate and pathetic, why didn’t you  _ think  _ for just one second— _

“What are you babbling on about now?” he replies instead, with added venom. Pointedly, he looks away from Dimitri.

The approach seems to work, as Dimitri looks embarrassed for asking and averts his eyes back down to the ground. He mumbles an apology and, thank the Saints, drops the topic all together. But it doesn’t stop Felix’s heart from racing in his chest—the fear and adrenaline staving off his fatigue and preventing him from truly getting any rest for the next few hours.

  
  
  
  


* * *

_ “There _ you are!” Sylvain calls out, jogging to catch up to her as Mercedes makes her way back to the infirmary. “I’ve looked everywhere for you, you know? Are you hurt?”

“I’m not, but I’m one of the few,” she replies, motioning grimly to the bustling hallway of people waiting to get into the infirmary around them both. Despite her hint that she’s busy, she indulges herself just for a moment and presses her cheek against Sylvain’s chest and hears his heartbeat, a steady reassurance that both of them are here and well. “Sorry for having worried you. I’m fine, I promise.”

“You don’t look fine,” Sylvain frowns, looking at the state of her skirts and likely the stressed expression she wore on her face.

“I’m just… it’s just been a long night, that’s all.”

“Yes, and not in the good way,” he says with a wink, reaching around and pinching her side. Normally, Mercedes would giggle and blush and swat his hand away playfully… but the situation around her is far from normal.

Classmates and church folk are critically injured around her, the smell of blood and other foul things so overwhelming that it’s actually starting to get to her just being in these now cramped quarters… victims of Umbral Beasts and other monsters that overtook the monastery in the middle of the night. Who had displeased the goddess this way? Was it all that man’s doing? She’s heard whispers and mentions in the chaos of the infirmary that the man was not only a monk, but a high-ranking cardinal of the Church. How could a true man of the goddess commit such horrific acts?

Sylvain must sense how distant she is, and coughs as he pulls away from her. “Sorry, I’ll let you get to work. I just had to find you and make sure you were safe,” he apologizes. “Now I’m gonna help Ingrid find His Highness and Felix… we haven’t seen them all night.”

“Oh,” is all Mercedes can manage. He kisses the top of her head fiercely before running down the hall and into the early morning light. When she turns back into the infirmary, she mentally steels herself for what she’s about to face.

Professor Manuela is busy treating a pair of Knights who each lost part of a limb to one of the winged beasts that descended on the monastery—luckily, one of them was able to recover the severed hand so that it can be magically reattached. Dorothea pushes past her, singing an ‘excuse me’ as she joins the monastery’s lead physician in healing the two Knights. Ignatz and one of the newer monks work in tandem aiding those with less critical injuries like broken bones and lacerations… she spies familiar faces like Petra and Ashe among that group. Even Flayn is seen flitting about, running vulneraries and concoctions to the other healers as they call for them.

It strikes her odd that she doesn’t see Marianne anywhere. But the infirmary is too busy to ask anyone about it. She says a quick prayer to the goddess for Marianne’s safety and wellbeing, but she’s saddened by her absence. The Golden Deer healer is her favorite person to be with while sharing infirmary shifts, uncomplaining and wholly devoted to her patients. Her absence means that Mercedes is left to help with the critical patients alone.

She first checks on Linhardt, who is fast asleep thanks to several concoctions. Peeling back the bandages around his middle ever so slightly, she observes that he’s beginning to scar quite nicely—she breathes a sigh of relief. He was not in good shape when she first found him. While healing her next patient—a monk with a punctured left lung—she’s interrupted with someone calling her name. When she turns around to face the direction of the voice, she finds herself looking down at a pair of doll-like blue eyes beneath a fringe of blonde-blue hair.

“So it  _ is  _ you!”

For but a moment, Mercedes is transported to blooming rose gardens and sandcastles on the beach and practicing magic at midnight during the summertime. Memories of simpler times… when she was blissfully ignorant of the ways of the world and of the raised voices and arguments her mother and step-father had behind closed doors. The times where laughter and smiles were shared between siblings and close friends like the one who sat miraculously before her now on a cot.

“Constance?” she murmurs, reaching out to make sure that the young woman before her was real—flesh and blood—and not some ghost of her imagination. And when the small, delicate hand wraps itself around her fingers with a gentle squeeze… she knows it’s really her.

“I considered I might have been dreaming, but I am overjoyed that I am not,” she replies, nodding fervently. “How serendipitous it is to see you again, Mercedes! Never did I think I would have the chance to do so in this life! What a frabjous day!”

Mercedes bites her lip to stop herself from crying. Suddenly, the scent of rose and sea spray of idyllic days vanish, giving way to the crushing reality as the infirmary comes back into motion around her… reminding her of how sad and cruel the world can be at times. Now, and back then… when she and her mother had to flee from an awful and dangerous situation at House Bartels that Mercedes didn’t come to understand until much later in her life. And poor Constance probably thought her to be dead along with the rest of the Bartels after… the incident…

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “There was so much going on back then. But enough about that—how are you? I’m so glad to see you, too… I…” The moisture in her eyes betrays her.

Trailing off, Mercedes is overcome with emotion at the fact that she is here—that Constance von Nuvelle, one of her dearest childhood friends, had survived the war and sacking of Nuvelle all those years ago. She remembers the day the news found its way to Fhirdiad, the gruesome reports that all of House Nuvelle had been slain in the attack. Mercedes had wept to her mother for  _ days. _ First, she thought she had lost Emile… then Constance… and yet, they were both very much alive despite such awful and tragic circumstances.

Constance laughs gaily and reaches up to wipe at Mercedes tears as they begin to roll down her cheeks.

“Don’t be ridiculous, now! No need to cry at such a joyous reunion,” she smiles, her own eyes bright. “You are my big sister; I always thought of you as such, sweet Mercedes. It is  _ you  _ who should be consoling me.”

Mercedes can’t suppress a giggle at that, grinning through the tears. Such a reunion could be considered miraculous—two women considered dead finding each other once again at the holy monastery, of all places. The goddess surely meant for them to meet here, despite the harrowing circumstances that led them to this moment. The only other thing that could make this moment sweeter would be—

“I wish that Emile were here,” Mercedes finds herself blubbering, before slapping a hand over her mouth. Her cheeks burn hot with shame at being so unprofessional and vulnerable when she needs to be the stoic healer right now for the long line of injured winding down the hallway and continually being brought in by the handful of Knights that don’t require healing themselves.

Before she can pull away and excuse herself to gather her bearings once more, Constance holds fast to her one hand. Mercedes feels the icy coldness of her fingers press into her palm, causing her to shiver involuntarily. “Shh, I know, I know, my dear,” her old friend consoles her. When Mercedes raises her head to look at Constance once more, she sees tracks of tears that match her own.

“Mercie, can you help me for a moment?” Dorothea calls out from the other end of the infirmary. She sniffles and smiles down at Constance. Her heart is so happy to have seen her again, despite the circumstances, but the ache from the broken places where Emile lives inside… that must be put on hold for now.

“Yes! I’ll be right there!” Mercedes calls out. She turns to face Constance once more before she leaves, giving her hand one final squeeze. “I need to go for now, but I’ll be back to check on you before you’re discharged. I’m not leaving you, Constance. I promise you, we will never be apart like that again.”

And maybe this time she can keep that promise.

  
  
  


* * *

“Tell me, then,” Kyphon snarls, his curled fist meeting the wood of the door in a startling slam. “What good is he even doing us? She wouldn’t even hold an audience with us!”

Loog sighs, worrying the creases of his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “Must you always be so combative? Can’t you just trust in the half dozen victories that he has supplied us?”

“No, I can’t. Can you truly look me in the face and tell me that our last two victories are  _ really  _ that?” Kyphon takes a challenging step forward toward his liege. “We shouldn’t have won—we should have been crushed and left for dead. We were outnumbered going into those battles, and you know it. By any measure, we shouldn’t have survived.”

“And by the grace of the goddess, we emerged victorious  _ despite  _ that!” Loog insists, his expression earnest and optimistic. “Why can’t you be satisfied with that? Do you  _ want  _ to die a traitor’s death?”

Byleth watches the raven-haired man paces across the room, his right hand tightly wrapped around the pommel of his sword. He nears where she is standing, so she side-steps out of his way. It’s not like either of them can see her, anyway. They haven’t taken pause from their heated argument to notice her ghostly presence.

“Stop lying to yourself, you imbecile. We didn’t win because of the goddess—if the goddess really had anything to do with it, Lady Tethys would actually listen to us and lend us her aid,” he says through gritted teeth.

_ Lady Tethys… _ Byleth thinks to herself, racking her memory for where she’s heard that name said before. Frustrated, she clutches at her head, her temple beginning to throb painfully behind her left eye.

“But we don’t even need her aid, because miraculously we have thousands of soldiers in our reserves whenever we’re about ready to be buried six feet under—every goddess damn time! So enlighten me, how am I supposed to be satisfied as your general, Loog? How am I supposed to stand here before my future king and be content with him turning a blind eye to my failures and to the blood magic happening right in front of him?!”

While Kyphon continues on his tirade, punctuated by finger pointing and scorn… Loog rises from his seat and moves to stand in front of his right-hand and shield with both puffed chest and sharp brow. He looks down at his general and waits impatiently for him to finish his lecture.

After his final accusation is hurled, Kyphon quiets and Loog doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Byleth swears she could hear a pin drop, and the tension is palpable. When Loog finally opens his mouth to speak, his top lip curls up slightly, revealing a little too sharp of a sneer.

“You aren’t supposed to stand before me,” he warns, the deep timbre of his voice carrying an underlying hint of something threatening. “You should be on your knees. It would do you good to remember that, my general.”

A glint of defiance flashes across Kyphon’s amber eyes.

“I’ll never kneel before someone who licks the boots of that vile magician…”

The sharp pain behind Byleth’s eye intensifies, and she presses the heels of her palms against her eyelids while groaning in agony. When she finally pulls her hands away, she’s standing in the middle of her room—not the ancient war room she had just been in but a moment ago. And instead of Loog and Kyphon, there’s just Dimitri and Felix—both fast asleep on opposite sides of the room.

There’s a gentle stream of daylight filtering in through the windows, and she stands against the glow, her frame casting a shadow on the floor boards. At her feet, there’s her blanket, pooling on the floor beneath her. She shakily bends down and grabs it, wrapping it around her shoulders. She pads back to her bed, curling up into herself as she lays upon the mattress.

She doesn’t want to think about what she just saw. She doesn’t want to think about anything.

  
  
  
  


* * *

Perched on the edge of her bed, Edelgard is careful not to flinch as Hubert diligently inspects her for any and all injuries—healing each one, no matter how painful or tender. She can tell that he’s fighting to keep his eyes open.

“I’ll be fine with a few scrapes and bruises, Hubert,” she tells him. He shakes his head in disagreement and presses a glowing white hand to a cut near her elbow. Edelgard presses her soft gloved palm to his cheek to get his attention, his viridian eyes flicking up to meet hers with a softer expression. “Please, get some rest. You need it.”

The door to her room creaks open, the daylight streaming in from the hallway—her hand falls from Hubert’s cheek back down to her lap, and his hand tightens instinctively around her arm. She looks up over his shoulder and sees a head of red hair and a broad smile with too many teeth, especially considering the gravity of what has transpired during this night.

_ Monica. _

“She’s right,  _ Hubie,” _ she sings with a leer, her voice shrill and taunting, emphasizing the pet name Dorothea has for her retainer. “It’s past your bedtime. Besides, Edel and I have a few things to discuss, don’t we?”

Pressing his lips into a fine line, Hubert stares back at Edelgard for a long moment. Before standing up before her, slips his left hand discreetly into his jacket and retrieves a small folded piece of parchment. When he rises, he presses it carefully into her palm with a knowing look. Clearing his throat, he finally turns around to face Monica, bowing as he takes his exit, drawing the door closed behind him. When the metal latch catches, it almost seems to echo through the small room… the dreadful feeling seeping into Edelgard’s bones.

She fights against the fear and uncertainty, though, sitting up straighter and donning the statuesque face of a future emperor as she regards Monica. 

“What do you wish to discuss with me?” she asks coolly.

Monica giggles a little too loud, her eyes a little too red as she practically skips over toward Edelgard. Her hands are clasped behind her back as she leans forward slightly.

“Oh, don’t be coy, little princess. You thought I wouldn’t notice you breaking your little promise you made to Thales, didn’t you?” she sneers under the charade of being facetious. “What do you take me for, an idiot?”

Edelgard bites her tongue, her hand tightening around the piece of parchment from Hubert.

“I promised not to interfere with my uncle’s plans in the Abyss, to which I stayed true. So I am not sure what you mean—”

Monica tuts loudly, cutting her off before she can finish. “You really are a bad liar, you know.” Edelgard’s brow twitches as she struggles to maintain her neutral expression, but her hands ball into fists on her lap. Monica notices, of course. “Oh, and a little bit of a temper, too!”

“I fail to see how I broke my promise if I had not once descended into the Abyss…” Edelgard insists until Monica closes the gap between them, causing her to stop mid-sentence. She crinkles her nose at the stench of rotting flesh that is her breath; she even leans back as far as she can while still sitting upright, desperate to put as much distance between them as possible. Monica’s cold, dead hands curl around one of her fists—the one with the parchment nestled inside—and begins to forcefully pry her fingers open with her sharp fingernails. “... _ excuse _ me!”

After a bit of a struggle, Monica retrieves the folded square of parchment, holding it up between her index and middle finger like a prize she had won.

“See what I mean, Edel? A  _ very  _ bad liar…” she chastises her, unfolding the parchment before them… slowly and painstakingly, watching Edelgard’s every expression and relishing in how her mask of control slowly slips, revealing the desperate fear beneath. “You know, friends shouldn’t keep secrets from each other!”

Edelgard inhales in a sharp breath. “We are not friends,” she corrects sternly. Normally, she’d be too afraid of snapping back with a sharp witticism of her own, but considering the message from Hubert is now on full display for Monica to read—and relay to Thales and the others—she thinks there is little left to make this situation any worse for her.

“Oh, I am fully aware you’re not quite fond of me, miss princess,” Monica says looking up at her from behind the piece of parchment that she’s now reading. “But it certainly looks like you’re good friends with your little Vestra… and he’s quite devoted to you! Considering he’s telling you all about the Chalice that we’re after, and all of our going abouts with that foolish cardinal in the Abyss.”

Edelgard feels like she’s going to be sick. Monica continues to giggle with raised eyebrows, her slender finger pointing to the inked words in the letter before her. “Such a shame that your real friend and the other brats had to ruin our little experiment. It would have been nice to finally get that purple-haired crested freak out of my hair… ugh, talk about  _ annoying.  _ He’s too smart for his own good.”

“You mean Yuri Leclerc?” Edelgard asks pointedly. “He has a name, you know.”

“I don’t  _ care,  _ Edel. I don’t have  _ time  _ for your sentimental garbage,” Monica sneers. She crumples the parchment in her fist and shoves it into the pocket of her Academy jacket. “Your life would be a whole lot easier if you stopped caring about stuff like that. Especially if you’re going to keep making  _ mine  _ difficult like this.”

“I’m doing exactly as you require of me. How am I—”

“Nuh uh, princess!” she interrupts, tapping the crumple of paper in her left pocket. “You  _ definitely  _ are out of line. But don’t worry… I’m sure Thales has something planned for you. But I mean, you probably already know that. He  _ is  _ your uncle, or whatever.”

Edelgard’s face twitches once more as she tries to measure her reaction. It doesn’t stop the chill from creeping up her spine, though.  _ My uncle died long ago,  _ she thinks to herself.  _ But it’s not worth arguing about.  _ She takes a deep breath and focuses on keeping her emotions in check and stopping her hands from shaking.

Monica turns around and skips her way over to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob to speak. “Oh, one last thing before I pay your uncle a visit,” she starts, making Edelgard grit her teeth. “Did you happen to get a good look at that beast in the cathedral? Absolutely  _ horrifying, _ am I right?”

She gives Monica a grim nod, which earns her a wicked smile.

“Good, I’m glad. Makes me wonder if you would look just as repulsive.” The fiend wearing a girl’s skin pauses, the smile broadening with unholy delight. “Just as  _ monstrous _ .”

“P-pardon?” Edelgard whispers, her mind stuttering along with her words.

Monica dismisses her with a wave of a hand. “Don’t  _ worry _ about it so much, Edel! You have great things ahead of you, little miss princess.”

  
  
  


* * *

Her adoptive father wouldn’t have sent her away to Garreg Mach if there wasn’t someone nearby to help her when she needed it.

And this morning, Marianne definitely needs some help.

As the sun begins to rise a little higher in the sky, it prompts her to walk faster—albeit gingerly, as she is barefoot walking across the gravel and cobblestone into the village below the monastery. Thankfully, it’s still early enough that there aren’t people milling out and about in the streets. In fact, a downright eerie silence settles over everything—not a single chirp of a bird, nor a whisper or quarrel between the tall oaks and maples. She hasn’t even heard a single toll of Garreg Mach’s clocktower.

The soles of her feet feel numb like her calves and arms, as the bloodied and torn tunic hangs off of her small frame, doing little to keep her warm from the crisp autumn morning air. She finds the small cottage with the oaken door painted blue, like she has on other mornings past. Marianne knocks urgently—the chill creeping into her bones pushing through her tendency to be timid.

There’s a shuffling behind the blue door before it opens, revealing the familiar face of Miss Edessa. Her round face bears a few wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and green eyes, and a couple scars that would look rather unsightly if it weren’t for her kind and warm smile. Her hair is pulled back behind the ivory linen of her wimple, as always. Marianne has visited the woman enough times to notice that she was the only one around the cottage aside from a cat or two—she’s almost certain that Edessa is a widow, but far too afraid to ask.

They had first been introduced by Marianne’s adoptive father, Margrave Edmund, when he had accompanied her out to Garreg Mach for the first time. In fact, he only brought her to Edessa’s blue-doored cottage. They all had had tea in her cozy sitting room and had chatted happily—well, the Margrave and Edessa did. Marianne just quietly listened in, too overcome by dread to contribute anything except a nod when appropriate. Her father had said that Edessa was like family to him, that he trusted her with his life—and by extension, he trusted her with Marianne’s. She always thought that was quite remarkable of a claim, but felt like she wasn’t deserving of it.

Did he really mean such a thing, that this woman was family? Did Marianne herself really mean that much to him? Afterall, the Margrave didn’t even accompany her to the Officer’s Academy—Miss Edessa did. She had dropped her off at the monastery gates, hugged her and waved her goodbye and everything.

Now, Marianne only sees Edessa because she  _ has  _ to in situations like this one—where she needs a change of clothes after a transformation, or a safe place to stay and have her wounds healed while she retches up a belly full of  _ goddess  _ knows what. The last thing she wants is to draw Manuela or her peers’ attention to the vile contents of her stomach or her lack of memory of how she received cuts and bruises all over her body. The less people that know the terrible truth about her, the better it is. The  _ safer _ it is.

Of course, Marianne’s father, Margrave Edmund, had told the kind woman about her unfortunate condition when he had first entrusted Marianne to her care. But miraculously, she accepts Marianne into her home anyway—at any day or hour, regardless of weather or season… and no matter how horrifically she is painted in blood and bits of viscera. But thankfully, Miss Edessa never asks such questions.

Well, that is...until today.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you for another few nights, dear. Are you all right?” Miss Edessa remarks kindly as she dabs the side of Marianne’s face with a wet cloth. Marianne cannot help but lean into the warmth as the sweat, dirt, and bits of dried blood are wiped clean from her skin.

“Yes…” she murmurs in reply. She opens her brown eyes to look at the woman for a half-second before lowering her eyes to the floor in shame. “It was… um, unexpected for me, too.” Edessa hums back in acknowledgement before turning to the basin to dampen the cloth again. The crackle of the fireplace and the wool knit blanket on her lap, to the hot ginger tea to soothe her stomach and the clean feeling of her skin as it meets the air all serve as reminders.

Miss Edessa’s devotion and discretion is appreciated—that is true. But it makes Marianne… uncomfortable. 

When the Margrave found Marianne, she had nothing and no one. He was an up and coming politician and leader of House Edmund—an adoptee himself into the relatively defunct noble house. With his charisma, charm, and prolific maritime trade policies, he had made a name for himself in the Alliance. Newly wealthy and powerful, with his House on the rise into earning a seat among the Five Great Lords… he found a pathetic, weak, and dangerous girl in Marianne. And he took her in despite it all.

She was resistant to her father back then, begging him to show her mercy in a different way. And even now, three years later, despite having everything—a home, an education, meals, and the love of a parental figure—Marianne is still resistant. Reluctant, even, to examine the notion that she is at all worthy of any of this kindness. To this day, it is difficult for Marianne to understand how her adoptive father and Miss Edessa could know the horrible, terrible truth of who—of  _ what  _ she is, and still show her grace.

Disbelief is one of the reasons why Marianne is close to so few people… why she doesn’t speak unless spoken to by others, why she keeps to herself at the monastery or at the Edmund estate… why she doesn’t write back like she ought to her adoptive father. Fear is the other.

She is constantly consumed by the fear of getting other innocents getting too close… fear of enjoying their company for it to only be ripped away by the beast—or those who wish to slay the beast. Marianne considers herself a part of the latter group. She prays to the goddess every morning and every night to spare her from the pain and misery of her existence. She prays that she never causes harm to those around her. She even prays sometimes before bed for the mercy of falling asleep, and never waking up.

_ It would be simpler that way,  _ she tells herself.  _ Then my adoptive father can focus on leading his territory and the Alliance to prosperity and Miss Edessa can be woken up by her cute kitties instead of this horrible monster knocking on her door. _

With uncanny intuition, almost like she can read Marianne’s mind, Miss Edessa breaks the silence all of a sudden. “You don’t have to look all down like that, my dear. No matter the hour, I want you to come to me when you need something. It’s no trouble,” she assures her, brushing the bits of leaves and dirt out of Marianne’s blue hair. “I made a promise to your father. But I have nothing else going on, anyway.” The old woman breaks into a heartwarming smile. “You will always be safe here.”

She nods shakily in response, the cup of tea warming the palms of her hands as they press against the ceramic. When Edessa excuses herself to fetch her a proper change of clothes from the wardrobe, Marianne studies the intricate design wrapping around the sides of the teacup. She can make out what looks like flowering ironwood trees and weeping acacias, what’s left of carefully painted lilies, and what look like little birds—their wings faded now from likely a few decades of use.

Edessa must have walked in on her squinting and running her thumb over the ceramic, because she startles Marianne when she speaks—nearly causing her to drop the teacup on the floor before her. “Admiring that old thing, huh?” she quips, a small smile lifting her cheeks and the scar that runs along there.

“Oh! Yes, um… I’m sorry…” Marianne trails off for a moment, fumbling with what words to say as the woman sets down a neatly folded stack of clothes on the wooden chair beside her. “The design of the flowers and the birds are quite pretty…”

Much to her surprise, Miss Edessa laughs warmly. “Oh, dearie, those aren’t  _ birds,” _ she tells her with a playful wave of the hand as she walks away to the back of the cottage to give Marianne some privacy to change. Her benefactor’s eyes sparkle as she turns back at the threshold. “Those are  _ dragons.” _

  
  
  


* * *

After Monica weaseled her way into Edelgard’s periphery this morning, effectively separating him from his liege one more, Hubert can do little more than hope that his message to her was secure and kept in confidence. While the rest of the monastery around him appears to screech to a standstill in the days following the debacle at the cathedral, he still has two other responsibilities to which he must tend.

The first of which is assisting Lord Arundel’s body thief in securing supply routes, soldiers, and other resources on the fringes of the monastery in Arundel and Magdred territory. He rationalizes to himself that it’s really for Lady Edelgard, in the end, and all for her fast approaching invasion and seizing of Garreg Mach at the first frost two moons from now. He forgoes sleep and spends the rest of that morning sending letters that he has neglected for the last few days. He knows that Arundel will be livid with him for inserting himself into what had transpired in Abyss; but that is enough for him to deal with when the time comes. Better it be than Lady Edelgard, anyway—and no need to make the vile imposter even more upset by shirking his other duties.

Hubert finally succumbs to sleep in the afternoon, though his rest is constantly disrupted by cold sweats and repeated nightmares of Edelgard dying at the hands of a grotesque scaled beast—the creature’s long, slender talons twisted around her snowy hair and tiny frame until they crush and consume her whole. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he ventures out of his quarters to get something to eat—through the weirdly quiet courtyards and past the rubble to the nearly silent dining hall, an eerie surussation of whispers coming from the people within. At least they were serving meat pies today; the only good thing about Garreg Mach, Hubert thinks to himself as he scarfs down the portion as quickly and efficiently as he can, relishing in the rare chance for quiet and peace in the subdued dining hall.

Now rested and fed, it is time for him to tend to his second responsibility—or, well,  _ problem  _ is a more apt description for the task at hand.

He returns to his quarters so that he can warp away in peace and out of sight of prying eyes. In the fizzle of purple light, he’s surrounded by overgrown grass and weeds that are now beginning to turn brown from the season changing. The setting sun casts a dying light from behind the weathered and forgotten von Morgaine estate—long left vacant until now.

Hubert walks up the uneven cobblestone path to the front porch and pushes open the front doors that no longer latch together, not after the events that occurred here a few nights ago. Careful not to step on any particularly large shards of glass, the wooden floorboards creak under his weight as he moves deeper into the house. It smells indescribably foul the further he moves into the sitting room and the shadows; when Hubert lifts his jacket sleeve to his nose to mitigate the odor, he catches the glint of violet eyes from the corner of the room.

There sits Gelfrid, resting his head and snout on his front legs like a dog would sit—except he is much, much larger and scaled and incredibly dangerous, even though he appears calm for now. Hubert notices a head of ashen blonde hair against Gelfrid’s black scales, and squinting his eyes through the dim light, he realizes that Jeritza is sitting on the ground, slumped against Gelfrid’s side. Tentatively, Hubert approaches—his heart racing and his hands ready to cast magic to defend himself and Jeritza if Gelfrid were to become agitated again. But thankfully, the closer he gets, the beast lets out a soft growl that sounds more like an inhuman hum of approval and recognition.

Jeritza, on the other hand, can barely lift his head to regard Hubert. It becomes evident very quickly that the positively foul stench is coming from the older man. When Hubert stoops down to get a better look at him, it’s impossible to notice the injuries he had sustained from that stormy night had festered into something terrible the last few days.

Hubert extends a hand to Jeritza’s abdomen and tries his best to use a Heal spell on the inflamed and infected wounds. Despite not being partially talented in any capacity with white magic, Hubert can tell within a few moments that his weak spell is not capable of repairing any of the damage. He has only made the pus and drainage ooze faster from the feverish man’s wounds.

With a huff, the dark-haired mage rests his forearms on his knees as he catches the lethargic gaze of Jeritza. “You should have let me heal you that night,” he scolds the man. “Or you could have at  _ least  _ brought yourself to them to take care of—”

“No,” Jeritza gasps. He reaches out to grab Hubert’s arm, sleeve, anything… but misses entirely, just grasping at the air in front of him.  _ For as deadly as he can be, _ Hubert thinks to himself,  _ this is absolutely pitiful. The greatest warrior of his generation, brought down by a sour wound. _

“No,  _ why? _ Do you think knocking on death’s door will do anything to help us—”

“They would… ask questions,” Jeritza coughs. “‘And then they would find... our friend…” The blonde man weakly tips his head back to motion to Gelfrid, who emits a small rumbling from his chest in agreement. 

Though Hubert hated to admit it, Jeritza had a point. A good one, at that. Arundel, Chilon, and his ilk were probably uncovering all that went wrong with their plans in Abyss this very moment… it was inevitable that they would soon start asking questions as to why their Death Knight did not show up at any point during that disaster of a mission to secure the Chalice. And if Arundel was the one to discover that two of Hubert’s classmates had potentially seen Hubert and Jeritza with the beast who just so happens to be Gelfrid von Hresvelg… well, that would be a slippery slope that neither of them could crawl back from. He physically shudders at the thought of Those Who Slither in the Dark sinking their teeth into both Ferdinand and Linhardt… not to mention what Edelgard’s reaction would be to such a thing… or her realization of the horrific state of her older brother, for that matter.

“Just leave me,” Jeritza mumbles, pathetically trying to wave him away with a sweating hand. “I’m better off… free… of them—”

“Stop it right there,” Hubert interrupts sharply. He stands up and brushes off the front of his jacket. “I’m not going to listen to you prattle on about this any longer. Have you forgotten what’s at stake for us both?”

Jeritza inhales slowly, his eyelids falling shut and fluttering weakly. “At stake… for me…”

“Yes,” Hubert says, rolling his eyes, but knowing that he doesn’t have to necessarily worry about the older man seeing his rude gesture. “I don’t need to remind you. So… uh,” he trails off, raising his eyes to the violet eyes peering down at him from above. He clears his throat before continuing. “Yes, right—Gelfrid. You make sure our friend here doesn’t try anything idiotic while I go fetch a real healer. A true healer.”

Neither the beast nor Jeritza responds, but Hubert doesn’t really know  _ what  _ he was expecting from either of them. Instead of wasting any more time, he stands away and warps back to Garreg Mach, making his way directly down to the Abyss—careful, of course, to avoid the eyes of the monastery staff. He knows he has little time to spare in order to not draw attention. He just hopes that he can find exactly who he has in mind for this task.

Thankfully, Constance is standing in the damp hallway outside the female dormitories, which spares him the embarrassment of having to awkwardly knock and ask for her. He catches her eye as he rounds the corner, and her face lights up at the sight of him, her complexion looking much better than it had yesterday. Though, when he approaches her, Constance’s smile quickly turns to a frown.

“What for Fódlan’s sake are you doing down here?” she hisses from behind her fan. “After all that has transpired, Hubert, you cannot just  _ waltz _ on down here so casually—”

“Oh please—being expelled from this goddess forsaken monastery would be a blessing, at this point,” he grumbles. Suddenly, the door they’re standing in front of swings open, startling both of them. Out walks one of the Abyssian residents, ducking self-consciously between them. Hubert’s gaze drifts into the room and the indigo glow coming from within… the gaudy lanterns and crushed velvet curtains draped on every wall in stark contrast to the poverty and squalor all around them.

Within the cheap parlour, the woman seated at the table smiles at the two of them, and Constance quickly returns the smile before turning her attention back to Hubert. She screws up her face and puts one fist on her hip. “What are you giving me that look of yours for?”

Hubert’s jaw tenses, and he raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “It’s nothing, really. I just never took you for one to believe in this sort of scam,” he remarks derisively, tilting his chin in reference to the Wayseer’s room. While other people may find crystal balls and cards entertaining, Hubert puts as much stock in all of that nonsense as he does the goddess.

“You cannot blame me for being curious, my dear Lord Vestra,” Constance replies, with bitter sarcasm on his family name, almost like a curse. “Afterall, some research suggests that the Wayseer and other mystics like her practice a fourth branch of magic—light magic.”

Unable to stop himself for the second time this evening, Hubert rolls his eyes. “Light magic is a myth,” he quips. “Besides, I need you for your skill in  _ white _ magic. Now. This instant.”

Constance regards him skeptically from over her fan, but eventually lowers it to regard him fully. Despite downturned lips, she sighs in agreement.

“Very well, Hubert. I will—”

Mid-sentence, he curls a gloved hand around her bicep and warps the two of them back to the dilapidated von Morgaine estate on the outskirts of Enbarr. The jolt makes the blonde mage a little unsteady on her feet, and Hubert does his best to keep her upright on the creaky floorboards.

“Ugh!” the former noblewoman protests, jerking her arm away from him. “At the very least, can you have the common courtesy to  _ alert _ someone when you are about to warp them to…” she trails off as she looks around, then throws her arms in the air with frustration, waving her fan about, “...to goddess knows where we are now!”

Hubert flicks his hand through the air to cast a simple Fire spell to illuminate the one or two wall sconces that remain intact; it’s enough to cast the dark and shadowy sitting room into a warm flickering glow, the candlelight reflecting off of Gelfrid’s onyx scales. Constance jumps at the sight of the beast, but instead of ducking behind Hubert, she raises both hands with a shimmering blue glow of one of her powerful Ice spells—poised to attack.

“Wait! Constance, _ stop,” _ Hubert calls out, jumping between her and Gelfrid and grabbing both of her wrists to stop her from casting. “It’s not what you think it is. It is… an old friend.”

“It is a beast, Hubert!” she shrieks, ripping her hands free from his hold. “Do not tell me you brought me here to heal a  _ monster—” _

“Constance… von Nuvelle?” a low voice mumbles out. It’s seldom that Hubert gets to see her speechless, but when her gaze falls to meet Jeritza—but now, only a heap of limbs bearing a silver blade that he’s far too weak to wield—he can see Constance’s face freeze at the sound of her name from his lips.

Her hands fist the fabric of her grey skirts in disbelief. “Emile…?” she finally whispers back.

Jeritza can hardly open his eyes more than a sliver, and it appears as though it’s taking all of his energy to do even that. Recognizing his face and how worse for wear he is, Constance hurries over to his side, her knees and skirts sliding on the wooden floor. Her hands are small in comparison to his as she encases his palm between her own—it looks almost like a prayer, the way she clutches onto him.

“It is you, isn’t it?” she asks desperately. “Emile—”

“Don’t.”

Constance blinks at him, perplexed. “‘Don’t’ what? Emile, I do not understand…”

With a grunt, Jeritza drags up his knee so that his boot is flat against the floor. Using his free arm to push himself, he slowly pulls himself upright into a standing position. Gelfrid stirs, raising his head to look at the wounded man, allowing him to use his massive scaled form to keep steady. Constance doesn’t lose her hold on Jeritza’s hand, standing up along with him with wide owl-like blue eyes.

When he staggers, Constance tucks her left arm around Jeritza’s waist to hold him upright. It’s almost comical to see, considering he towers over the blonde mage by nearly an entire foot… but her stature belies her strength. Gelfrid growls slightly at their sudden closeness, but Hubert shushes him, smoothing his gloved hand over his snout. “You remember little Constance, do you not?” he murmurs as discreetly as he can manage. The beast’s slitted pupils constrict as he settles with a little grumble from the back of his throat.

“Emile died a long time ago,” Jeritza explains simply, tiredly. Like he’s tired of explaining and weary from remembering a past that he would very much like to remain dead and buried. He teeters back and forth, and Hubert almost steps in to help Constance… but she firmly grips his shoulders with both of her hands to keep him upright. She looks at Jeritza squarely with an intensity that Hubert’s only seen with her nose in a book of complex spellwork or when she’s annoyingly persistent about needing to know why he has purple and blue circles under his eyes and half-healed scars on his arm.

“Yet he is standing here before me,” Constance counters. “I heard what had happened at House Bartels, that awful place. I could never fault you for that! But now all these years have passed, and not even a word from you? We have only known each other since we were children—”

“Constance—” Hubert tries to interject, but she continues on… her voice teetering higher and higher with emotion.

“—did it never occur to you that I ought to have been consulted?! But instead of sending a letter or anything at all, you are here in this ramshackle house, fraternizing with beasts? After all we have been through, Emile? Such callousness! Such rank insensitivity!” She curls her fingers into the fabric over his shoulders for leverage to pull him toward her when his eyelids begin to droop again. “Are you even listening to me?! Emile!”

“Constance! Enough,” Hubert reprimands her, more harshly than he intends. She snaps her head over to look at him, a disconcerted expression playing out on her features. Gelfrid rumbles in agreement, and for a split second, it looks like Constance might burst into tears. “He’s not listening because he’s very sick. That’s why I brought you here.”

Her lips make a small “oh” shape, but no sound comes out. She averts her eyes to the floor, the tops of her cheekbones turning pink with shame. Hubert notices she doesn’t look any less upset, though.

“Very well, then,” Constance agrees curtly. “Help me lay him down, will you?”

With a nod, Hubert helps her lower Jeritza to a prone position on the floor. He watches as Constance brushes a few stringy pieces of his ash blonde hair out of his face with the side of her hand. She cups the side of his sweating face with her palm and grimaces.

“He’s running a terrible fever,” she observes. Her eyes trail down his body to the torn and stained fabric of his abdomen, and carefully, she peels away the shredded bits of his tunic to examine the damage underneath. Her nose scrunches up at the offensive odor that wafts up to her. “It is most fortuitous that you brought me here,” she says with a cough. “You were always dreadful at white magic, so there would be no way you could heal something as unsightly as this.”

Hubert exhales sharply as he straightens up, folding his arms defensively across his chest. It’s not like Constance is  _ wrong  _ —but he would have preferred it if she did not bring it up so bluntly.

As she presses a glowing white hand to the infected lacerations on Jeritza’s torso, she clicks her tongue before speaking again. “I know as much because you healed those cuts on your arm,” she continues, throwing a glance at the ugly pink scars that peek out from the cuff of his jacket. “So are you ever going to tell me what gave you those cuts? Or what did this to Emile?”

_ “Jeritza,” _ he corrects her.

Constance raises her head without looking at Hubert. Her response is as icy as her trademark spellwork. “Jeritza,” she repeats. “As in the Professor at the Officers Academy?”

“Yes.”

“The Professor rumored to have kidnapped those girls?”

“Yes.”

Abruptly, the healing white light extinguishes. Constance rests her palms on her knees, and she refuses to look at Hubert.

“The very same Death Knight we have dueled but  _ recently  _ with?”

Hubert nods. Constance doesn’t see, of course, but she doesn’t need to see or hear a response to know the answer to her question. She takes a deep breath to steady herself, tucking her chin to her chest. For a moment, Hubert thinks he’s made a fatal error in bringing her here… in telling her all that he has about Those Who Slither in the Dark and of their conspiracies inside the Empire.

The bits and pieces he’d shared with her paint _ them _ as the enemy… but now she is realizing how blurred the lines are between friend and foe, as both Jeritza and Hubert are both forced to cooperate with the same cult who perpetrated the kidnappings of Academy students and even  _ her  _ just two nights ago. Constance had almost died that night—they  _ all  _ almost died. He had thought he’d have more time to explain the twisted circumstances of his and Jeritza and Edelgard’s subservience to Those That Slither in the Dark… but he knows now he has gravely miscalculated.

“I am sorry,” Hubert murmurs, unsure of what else to say in the moment. “I should have told you—”

“Yes, you should have,” Constance snaps back, her voice shrill and fragile. After a moment of glaring at him, she returns to healing Jeritza, but she hasn’t let Hubert off the hook just yet. “If you find yourself trusting me, as you have said, then the time has ceased for you to be keeping secrets. I will graciously allow you to redeem yourself by answering my first question—what tribulation did you two find yourself in that nearly killed Emile?”

Hubert opens his mouth to correct Constance again, but closes it and decides it’s not an appropriate time to fight. He clears his throat.

“The… creature,” he says as kindly as he is able, nodding over to Gelfrid who is intently watching Constance work from the corner of the room, “He was started by some unwelcome visitors the other night—”

“This creature is a ‘he,’ now?” she interrupts, her voice teetering on the edge of a yell. “Startled? Hubert! It is a  _ monster,  _ and it  _ attacked _ you both. Emile could have  _ died—” _

“Do you want your answers or not?” Hubert bites back, his voice venomous and rife with irritation at her interruptions and the flippant use of Jeritza’s old name. Constance subdues herself, but her glare is just as poisonous in return. He sighs and tries again.

“Emile already died back at House Bartels. That was his last wish. His name is now Jeritza, so please call him as such,” he orders, pointing at the man laying on the ground before her. He shifts his finger to Gefrid, who is emitting a grumbling purr of displeasure to their agitation. “And  _ he  _ is not a monster.  _ He  _ did not attack us intentionally. What happened to Jeritza and I was an  _ accident _ . Prince Gelfrid would never hurt either of us intentionally.”

Right on cue, Gelfrid shuffles in the corner and lifts his massive bulk, and pads over toward Constance and Jeritza, lowering his snout to the pair. The blue-blonde mage jumps back at the sudden movement of the beast, looking positively frightened.

“G-Gelfrid?” she stammers, staring up at the large brilliant violet eyes. “It cannot be so… Hubert, you told me yourself that all of the other Hresvelgs are no more!”

The beast blinks, and then lets out a heartbreaking low whine before letting his head fall to the floor in a commiserable slouch. Few things make Hubert feel any type of sorrow these days, but Gelfrid’s cry certainly does. The pang hits him square in the chest… the thought creeping into the front of his mind that perhaps poor Gelfrid had no idea the fate of his siblings… except now, he does.

“I did believe that for the longest time,” Hubert admits slowly. “But Gelfrid has given me... hope.”

  
  
  


* * *

Byleth doesn’t remember how long she was able to wallow in her sorrows alone and unbothered—aside from the two men keeping her company. They seemed to sleep in shifts, taking turns keeping watch over her like this was a war camp.

During the daytime, when the light filtered softly through the window pane, Felix would bring her porridge and water. He patiently forced her to eat and drink, even though it was near impossible for her to take but a small bite or sip. At night, Dimitri would sometimes slip into bed beside her, holding her and petting her hair gently through her exceptionally vivid dreams that usually leave her crying silently. Normally, Byleth would be embarrassed to be that intimate with the prince when Felix was right there in the room with them—even if he was asleep, curled up with a spare blanket and pillow on the floor—but she had been far too numb to be bothered.

From time to time, between bouts of nightmares and staring blankly at the wall, Dedue or Mercedes would enter the room, Felix diligently making sure there was no one else in the hallway before allowing them in. Dedue’s visits were short, dropping off meals or fresh linens; he would always greet her each time, though. Mercedes’ visits were longer, as she would take dedicated time to heal her—hands pressed to her forehead and the bridge of her nose. One of those visits, when Byleth looked up at her for a split second, her eyes were tired and red like she had been crying.

Byleth doesn’t remember how long she got to wallow in her sorrows alone and unbothered, until the day Catherine had burst into the room, with Lady Rhea but a step behind her. Dimitri had tried his bets to convince them otherwise, but at this point, Byleth had been too weak and spiritless to put up any fight of her own. She remembered feeling wetness drip down her face as her cheek mashed into the pauldron on Catherine’s shoulder.

Soon enough, she was in the cold sterile infirmary instead of Felix’s warm bed. But to make matters worse, she was perpetually drowsy and lethargic from the draughts given to her to help her sleep—making it impossible to get up and leave without staggering and falling over, bringing bottles of herbs and tinctures to the ground with her in a shatter. She also couldn’t tell how much time was passing by when stuck in the cot—especially without the rotation of familiar faces to keep her company. Of course, there was Manuela who tended to her here and again… but curiously, none of the student healers were at her bedside in the evenings during their shifts. It was always some Church monk… or the archbishop herself, who sat by her side every day, unwaveringly.

She felt trapped by her presence. Lady Rhea would brush back the hair on her forehead, but it lacked the tenderness of Dimitri’s hand; she’d help her eat and drink, but it was devoid of Felix’s devotion to her recovery. That entire time in the infirmary, she had not once seen either of the two Blue Lions.

She once asked the archbishop about it, during one of her more lucid moments, wondering if they had been expelled. “No, no, my child. They were merely caring for you until I could,” Lady Rhea had explained to her, gently and kindly. “You have nothing to worry about.”

She also asked the archbishop about her students—Edelgard and the other Black Eagles. Most certainly they would have paid her a visit like they had the last time she was here. “No, no, my child. They are busy with their studies and preparation for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion,” she had soothed, a cool hand on her cheek. Byleth remembered catching a waft of lilies, too strong to be normal, so she turned her head and nose away.

When she had asked about her father, though, Lady Rhea was quick to assure her that he had visited several times already. Byleth’s heart sank with disappointment that she had always been sleeping when her father had decided to visit. Though it wasn’t like she was in a state to maintain any length of conversation with him, given her condition…  _ especially _ if Lady Rhea never left her side.

Byleth never asked about her mother, though. Not even once. It wasn’t worth asking if she’d never get any real answers.

The day before the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, Lady Rhea personally helped Byleth attend a small funeral for her mother. It was a private and solemn affair, just Byleth and Jeralt—and the archbishop, of course. A few Knights lowered the wooden casket down into the ground as the breeze shuffled some fallen leaves across the cemetery grass, a few of them tumbling down into the grave.

Byleth was able to hug her father then, silently exchanging emotions without words, but their exchanges were few, both knowing that Rhea’s omnipresent gaze was upon them.

It was enough, though, for her father to tell her that he was leaving the monastery and bringing her with him. Byleth shook her head and declared quietly that she was staying—resolute in her purpose here. She did insist that he leave, though, if he wanted to. There was no time for details… but if it spared her father an unsavory end, so be it.

Her father ultimately agreed in the end—nodding while grumbling to himself, like he usually does. For that, Byleth was grateful that he did not require more convincing on the matter… although it was likely the wrong place and wrong time for that sort of argument. Had Rhea overheard anything about her past life or the divine pulse that brought her back here, it would end badly for everyone—the archbishop would sit Byleth on the Throne of Knowledge that night, unknowingly stirring up all of Fódlan into a war.

No one would be prepared for war. They weren’t back then, and they weren’t now. Hells, no one was even prepared for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion.

Everyone had been surprised—and dare say even  _ irritated _ —at the news that the yearly mock battle was slated to continue. Even Manuela and Hanneman could agree that it should have been postponed, or even cancelled outright—considering the state of the monastery, the number of students injured, and that Manuela was busy with an overflow of patients in the infirmary and Hanneman was busy with juggling all of the monastery’s students with Seteth’s help, since Manuela and Byleth were both unable to teach. Neither of them had had much sleep since the incident… the one that no one really had a good name for, so everyone just referred to it ominously as  _ ‘that night’. _

_ That night _ had left several parts of the monastery in disrepair… and left each House missing key students from the mock battle, with the noncombatants watching from their position on a small hill on the sidelines of Gronder field.

Ingrid and Ashe sit near the base of the hill, the former remarkably downcast and pouting that she isn’t able to participate due to her still-healing injuries, and the latter trying to console her the best he can with a cheery smile. The Golden Deer are missing their strongest in Raphael; Byleth had heard that he’d badly broken his arm while valiantly trying to rescue Lysithea and Ignatz from one of the winged beasts in the courtyard that night. And Linhardt, still recovering from his injuries, joins the group along with the imposter Monica, who claims that she isn’t yet ready to fight. Byleth knows the lie, but since the events of the past month, she has been unable to confront the shape-shifter yet.

As the remaining students begin the battle at the sound of trumpets and Seteth’s announcement, Byleth and her father stand beside each other and watch the battle from the bluff overlooking the field.

“I can’t believe I agreed to officiate this,” Jeralt grumbles under his breath, only loud enough for Byleth to hear. 

Byleth can’t believe it, either. Her father was the loudest voice against having the Battle of the Eagle and Lion resume, according to Manuela. She had told her this morning that Lady Rhea and Jeralt got into a shouting match over it at the Knights and faculty meeting… though it was largely one-sided, with her father doing most of the shouting.

She glances at him. The wrinkles on her father’s forehead and frown look deeper—likely from the grief of mourning her mother for the second time in this life. And while this is only the second time that she and her father have spoken to each other since _ that night, _ they haven't been able to speak of much at all due to Lady Rhea, Seteth, or the Knights being so near to them.

But even if they  _ could  _ talk freely without overhearing ears… Byleth doubts her father would be any more open to discuss the questions he has avoided since coming to the monastery. Questions that are now more relevant than ever before, such as why he left Garreg Mach and distrusts Lady Rhea so… and, of course, the matter of her mother. Her father said before that he couldn’t keep her safe—likely from Rhea. And whenever Byleth asked about her mother, her crest, her illness… her father wouldn’t say a word, becoming silent and grim.

  
  


_ “It was you who killed her! When she gave birth to a child who made no sound. What did you do to her, Rhea? Tell me!” _

_ “Tell me!” _

_ “Tell me!” _

  
  


She physically shudders at Aelfric’s hoarse cries ringing in her head like an awful echo. Does her father feel the same as Aelfric did? Is his distrust in Rhea the same as the mad cardinal’s? Byleth tightens her cloak around her shoulders as a gust of cool autumn breeze swirls around them, blowing pieces of her hair into her face. She brushes them aside absently.

“I also can’t believe they let you come here at  _ all, _ if what I heard was true,” her father adds after a beat, shooting her a stern yet concerned look. “You should still be in the infirmary.”

“No—I  _ don’t _ want to be stuck back there,” Byleth says exasperatedly. “I can finally stretch my legs and get some fresh air. It’s bad enough that they’re making me go back every day for healing and more of that terrible stuff. Besides, those tinctures they give me make me feel… not like myself...” she adds with a significant look, relishing in this long-awaited moment of clarity as she stands shivering in the Wyvern Moon chill. She can’t bring herself to actually watch the mock battle happening below too closely—the sight is resurfacing many painful memories from her previous life that she’s worked diligently at suppressing over the last several moons.

_ “Thank Sothis _ I’m finally out of that damn place,” she mumbles to herself.

Suddenly, her father’s hand grabs onto her elbow—much like he would do when Byleth was in trouble as a child. “Keep your voice down,” he chastises her in a quiet yet insistent whisper. Jeralt peers down at her with a perturbed look on his face. “How the hell do you know that name anyway?”

Byleth looks up to her father with a guilty expression. She opens her mouth to give an answer, but snaps it shut when can’t come up with a half-decent lie that he would believe.

“While I’m flattered you haven’t forgotten about me,” a small, yet familiar voice chimes in, yawning loudly next to Byleth. “Your father  _ is _ right, you know.”

Her eyes flicker down to her left, and she sees Sothis’ wild green hair and her playful smirk beside her. “You forget that you’re not supposed to know my name yet… little miss mercenary girl, raised without knowing  _ anything _ about the Church or the goddess,” Sothis continues, poking her leg with a childlike finger for emphasis. Byleth flinches slightly, then swallows as she looks past her father at the archbishop standing just a few yards away from them. When she realizes that Lady Rhea is regarding her curiously, she stands a little straighter and averts her gaze back to the ground.

“I know because she told me her name,” she whispers back to her father.

The sound of wooden training blades clattering against each other fill the silence between them for a long and uncomfortable moment. Byleth stands unmoving, still clutching the fabric of her cloak. She avoids the urge to tilt her head up and look at her father’s expression, knowing full well it would be the same look he’d give her when she would tell him about her recurring dreams while growing up. That familiar, dismissive look of fond indulgence.

“And who exactly is  _ she?” _ her father asks, tight-lipped and definitely referring to Lady Rhea.

There’s a few flashes of magic down on the field below them. She can hear the distinctive voices of the three House lords shouting out commands to the other members in their respective classmates… and Byleth shivers at the little snippets of memories that itch at the edge of her mind—memories of a large-scale and bloody battle that she never fought in herself, but only heard rumors about. She can almost feel the heat from flames that ignite the central hill, hear the hiss of the arrows that cut through the air—

Byleth feels a small hand slip into hers, a soothing balm that slows the trickle of those horrible visions into her mind’s eye. She spares a glance down at her right, and sees Sothis. She gives her hand a squeeze, and for the briefest moment, she forgets that she’s not really tangible… not really  _ real  _ outside of herself.

“The goddess,” Byleth corrects her father, in a whisper.

When he doesn’t respond right away, she tilts her chin up to look at him. His expression is trained on her, but… distant, his brown eyes far away. For as confident as she spoke those words a second ago, regret now burns in her windpipe. She wishes she could take her words back. Still—Sothis is beside her, and clings to her hand tightly.

“He’s not saying anything,” the goddess observes. Byleth turns her eyes back to the distance, pretending to watch the mock battle take place below them, but far more interested in how the red and orange turning of the leaves meet the dusty blue horizon. “Why did you even say that? You  _ really _ must not be feeling well, Byleth.”

_ I don’t know why, _ she thinks.  _ I can jump back— _

“No!” Sothis interrupts sharply, tugging on her arm urgently. “You really  _ are _ a fool… too outspoken for your own good and now, you have a deathwish to boot! That wouldn’t bode well for either of us…”

Byleth scrunches up her nose in question.  _ What do you mean, ‘no?’ _

“Ugh, do I have to explain everything to you?” she sasses back, but then she sighs in resignation. When Sothis continues, she’s gentler and apologetic. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be blaming you at a time like this, considering the last few days you have been so injured that I haven’t been able to reach you.”

_ You’ve tried to talk to me? _

The goddess snorts in response. “Oh, have I ever! So has your father—Lady Rhea wasn’t lying that he visited every single day. He’s perhaps more worried about you than your little prince and your angry sword-swinging friend,” she explains. “I figured you would have caught on by now—Felix has... at least it appears to me that he has—”

_ Caught onto  _ what, _ Sothis? _ Byleth thinks back, now impatient.

“Using the divine pulse… he knows that it is making you ill,” the goddess says simply. Regretfully.  
  
  
  


* * *

If there’s one thing Linhardt loathes more than anything else, it’s parties.

Celebrations, feasts, balls… any grand gathering or special occasion is just not his cup of tea. He’d much rather do something productive, like work on his research or nap the day away, rather than stand around for hours on end talking to superficial and shallow idiots. Or worse, yet—dance.

But here he is, eating his own words while he dances with Caspar.

He’s noisier than usual tonight. Boisterous as ever, and the stream of punch that his cousin Randolph has been sneaking to him all night has made his face flushed and warm.  _ It makes him even more handsome, in a way,  _ Linhardt thinks. His shock of blue hair is slightly disheveled, too… just how Linhardt prefers. And as they sway to the lively tune plunked out by the harpsichord in the corner of the Bergliez’s grand ballroom at their manor… he realizes that this moment is perfect.

Or at least, it should be.

_ But it isn’t. _

Caspar won’t hold him properly because of the hideous scar on his torso that’s still tender, snaking around his right side and waist where his lover’s arm and hands should wander instead. He knows that he’s probably just trying to be gentle and self-aware enough of his actions and how they might cause him any discomfort—a feat that Caspar only manages to pull off when it involves Linhardt. But it doesn’t change the fact that it’s just another frustrating reminder that he survived that day… that infernal Umbral Beast… all of the harrowing revelations that preceded the events of that night.

Crested blood… his stomach used to lurch at the sight or even the mere  _ mention _ of blood, but now his stomach has been steeled by the indignant dissension that simmers there instead. Crested blood… when he laid there that night, flat on his back and staring up at the stained glass visages of saints long departed, his fingertips moistened with his own wretched, crested blood… the kind of blood that has caused endless strife, war, insurrection, murder and corruption… Linhardt pounded his fist to the puddle of that same blood and begged the glass face of Saint Cethleann to take it back.

He doesn’t want it—not anymore. Even if it meant death. If only then, perhaps, there’d be  _ some _ small bit of justice in this cursed land.

Why has he suffered not for a single drop of his blood, while others like Edelgard and Lysithea have had  _ everything _ taken from them… that their laughing and innocent siblings were either driven mad or into the ground as defenseless children… or perhaps a worse fate, fashioned into some beast to roam Fódlan forever… all for the sake of the precious commodity of crests? Why has he always lived lavishly because of his crested blood when others like Constance and Hapi were forced to live in an underground slum with the desolate and destitute… only to be hunted and groomed for some grand experiment where they would finally be killed for the blood flowing through their veins?

He damns himself for being so naive for so long… for shunning the world, and even the boy before him, all for the pursuit of researching crests, his private obsession. Linhardt has never felt so resentful of himself. In the past, he would never go as far to regret a single nap or sweet bun—but now he’s been forced to regard all of his past frivolity, and take account. Sure, his research hasn’t hurt anyone. It hasn’t kidnapped anyone, killed or tortured them. But out there across Fódlan, in more places than one, it seems… it’s no beyond doubt that there is science and research being performed in the name of greed, a lustful quest for ungodly power and control over others.

That’s why this perfect moment simply shouldn’t exist. How could it? Happiness and joviality in the same plane of existence with such cruelty should be a slap in the face of the goddess.

“Linhardt…” his dance partner chimes in, his nose ruddy and his grin charmingly infectious. “I can practically hear you thinking, y’know.”

“Well, stop listening. It certainly isn’t as pleasant of a tune as this one,” he jokes, shrugging in reference to the live music filling the ballroom. This elicits a giggle out of Caspar, albeit a drunken one. Linhardt knows Caspar well enough by now to know that he’d never understand his humor while clear-headed.

But he wouldn’t have him any other way. Sometimes he’s envious of how blissfully oblivious Caspar is… of how single-minded his focus is on whatever obstacle lays before him. Mostly, Linhardt realizes as his partner’s fingers dance over the skin at the nape of his neck, he’s jealous of how Caspar doesn’t realize anything at all. There’s a price for knowledge, or at least that’s what Macuil had written nearly a dozen times or more in his letters to Saint Noa. Now, Linhardt finally knows what that ancient Saint had meant.

Linhardt should be  _ happy _ and dancing and celebrating with everyone else—the Black Eagles had earned a hard-fought victory in the esteemed Battle of the Eagle and Lion.

But the price of what they’ve won is the same as what they’ve lost.

Caspar and Linhardt spin about the polished wood floors, moving closer to the front of the room near the musicians. Glittering candle light reflects off of the ivory keys and metallic details on the fiddles and instruments. There’s a small group of people standing near the performers, and he notices his and Caspar’s fathers among them. Count Bergliez, a rather stout man, glances up from the crystal glass in his palm to smile and laugh at something Count Hevring had said.

Sure, it’s odd to see the two counts act all chummy like this—especially at an event where they don’t even have to pretend to like each other or get along in any capacity. As the acting Ministers of Military and Domestic Affairs respectively, Bergliez and Hevring seldom have interactions that don’t involve yelling at each other. That’s part of the reason why Linhardt and Caspar have grown so close… much of their time growing up together was spent stealing away from their turbulent fathers and their arguments.

Linhardt doesn’t pay this peculiarly friendly interaction any mind, though. He really ought to be grateful for it—maybe this is indicative of a future where he and Caspar won’t have to hide their relationship from their rivalrous houses.

What makes him do a double take, however, is when Caspar’s older brother, Klaus von Bergliez, and Edelgard join the conversation with the older men. His curiosity now overwhelming, Linhardt steers him and Caspar as close to them as he can manage while still appearing inconspicuous. While maintaining the waltz to the music, he strains to listen to their conversation over the fiddle and Caspar’s drunken babbling, however endearing it is.

“Ah, the woman of the hour!” exclaims Caspar’s father, raising his glass to greet his son and Edelgard. “Our Lady Hresvelg, who led the Empire to victory. Here—a toast, to the first of many.”

Klaus and Count Hevring voice agreement while joining in the toast, while Edelgard modestly bows her head in acceptance of their praise.

“Thank you, though I am much more interested in  _ your _ take, Count Bergliez,” she replies, keeping her voice low. “Since you and Klaus were able to attend, what did you make of the other two houses?”

Caspar stumbles for a moment, nearly taking Linhardt along with him. They recover—thankfully—before either of them end up on the floor; Linhardt winces as the sudden movement causes his muscles to tense up and tug at the still tender flesh on his side. “Linhardt,” his blue-haired partner whines, clutching at the front of his shirt in a little too forward of a manner that might draw unwanted attention from their fathers. “You’re not even  _ trying _ to dance with me!”

“Believe me, I’m doing my very best to dance with a  _ certain _ someone who has two left feet tonight,” he quips, not even making eye contact with him. His attention is elsewhere, trying to listen in on the curious conversation happening just a few feet away.  _ It’s almost strategic that they’re standing so close to the band, _ Linhardt realizes to himself as he tries to waltz them a little closer once more.

“...and what was my uncle’s evaluation of today’s showing?” Edelgard asks, taking a demure sip from her wine glass.

“He was pleased, though not surprised that the archbishop would proceed with the battle, no matter its tradition, after the disgraceful events last week…” Linhardt’s father adds, with a particular disdain in his voice. It’s evident where he stands on Lady Rhea’s choice to keep the Battle of the Eagle and Lion as scheduled.

“What did he say about Prince Dimitri? And Claude von Reigan?”

“Not much,” Klaus reports with a shrug. “He said it was a poor performance considering...”

_ “Linnnnhardt!” _

“Shhhh,” he hushes Caspar, pressing a finger to the tip of his partner’s nose. “Just be quiet a moment, okay?”

As they fall back into somewhat of a rhythmic sway to the music, Linhardt tries to tune back into little snippets of the conversation, but he almost immediately wishes that he hadn’t.

“...preparations are going smoothly, your Highness. By the Ethereal Moon we should have proper supply routes secured through the northwest regions…” explains Linhardt’s father.

“...don’t fret, Duke Aegir is unaware of these changes...” assures Count Bergliez.

“...has the young Vestra reported to you about Lord Jeritza? He was last seen headed south by my men at Fort Merceus…” Klaus chimes in, and Linhardt’s grip on Caspar’s shoulders tightens reflexively.  _ Lord Jeritza? The Death Knight? _

“...have you reported this to Count Gloucester?” Edelgard asks, her voice carrying a certain edge—the same pique that shows up when Linhardt is late for class or when Claude points out the rats that love to skitter about the second floor of the dormitory.

Linhardt averts his eyes quickly when he notices his own father nod in agreement. “Yes, as you know, he has a…” he clears his throat, _ “...particular interest _ in finding him.”

_ “Ouch,  _ Linhardt!” Caspar exclaims, shaking his shoulder free of the iron vice-like grip that Linhardt has on him. It abruptly brings him back to reality. He stares back bewildered into his partner’s blue eyes, and realizes that they’re no longer dancing or even swaying together to the music.

“That kinda hurt,” he continues, pulling away from whatever embrace they were sharing while dancing, rubbing his collarbone and shoulder with his one hand. Linhardt feels cold without Caspar near him. His hands drop to his sides, and the foot separating the two of them feels more like a gulf.

Caspar reaches out first, his fingertips warm against Linhardt’s forearm and wrist. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay, Linhardt?” Wordlessly, he nods back. But his attention on Caspar breaks, when he notices his father and Edelgard walk across the ballroom together.  
  
  


* * *

When Seteth opens the door to his office, fingers stiff and aching from penning Church documents well into the evening when the sun has long since left the sky… he doesn’t expect to see the door across from him slightly ajar. Usually it’s left wide open as it always is—when it’s closed in any capacity, that usually means Captain Jeralt is working. Not that he does much work here at the monastery, especially in recent weeks.

He can hear shuffling from inside the room, and whether Seteth is feeling particularly bold this evening or just that he’s not one to eavesdrop or speculate, he pushes open the door with the heel of his palm and finds Jeralt, still in his armor, shoving books and baubles into a leather bag.

“Are you going to leave again?” he asks, announcing his presence. “Take Byleth with you?”

“I’m sure Rhea told you all about that, huh?” Jeralt replies, not bothering to turn around and face him. “She believed me to be dead—that’s the only reason I could leave. This time, though…”

Seteth watches as Jeralt trails off, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He thinks to the times that  _ he _ left Lady Rhea’s side, and how difficult and formidable the task was each time. There is little room for error, as such an act requires total dedication. In the centuries that have passed, the seeds of loneliness have grown in her heart… twisting into vines that have imprisoned her. Anyone she makes attachments to, she will go to the ends of the earth to keep near to her. Rhea always finds those who are lost or missing; she has always been that way, for as long as Seteth can remember.

“I can’t stay here.  _ She—”  _ Jeralt pauses as he opens a desk drawer and regards what items are within. Then, he lifts his head and waves his hand animatedly at Seteth, his voice raising. “I  _ knew  _ she had something to do with… how Byleth is. And now this? She won’t even give me two minutes alone with her, and there’s no report, no investigation, of what happened in that damned cathedral?”

Seteth waits patiently as he listens. The man is not… incorrect. About some things, at least. He would be lying to himself if he did not have the same concerns about the archbishop’s  _ interest  _ about Byleth—though he’s always felt it verged on an obsession since she and Jeralt had come to the monastery moons ago now.

He never knew Sitri when she was alive, because that was before his return to the monastery. But he certainly saw her body lying there… with green hair and pale skin, untouched by time, even in death.

Features and attributes that were too similar to his kind for his comfort.

“Look, I  _ know  _ you know, Seteth. Because I was in your shoes once. I worked for her and knew things I’d rather not,” Jeralt tells him. His words are bristling, and Seteth finds himself folding his arms across his chest and trying to make himself smaller, in a way. There is no need to be afraid, he reassures himself.  _ He is talking about _ that night _ —but he does not know  _ everything, _ that much is certain. _

“To be in confidence of the archbishop… carries a weight of secrets, yes,” he replies carefully.

“I want a full report from  _ you, _ then,” Jeralt is quick to demand. “Of what Aelfric did to my wife. Of what traumatized my daughter so badly.”

For a long moment, Seteth scratches his jaw as he carefully considers what is appropriate to disclose to Jeralt… and how exactly to frame it. He is correct in saying that there is no report of that night—there never will be a written report, at least officially signed by Lady Rhea, that is. For now, all who know the truth of the events that unfurled, and the context behind them, is the archbishop. He is wise enough to know that he cannot claim to know everything, considering Rhea still keeps her own secrets… ones that have begun to form a web that is proving quite tangled, emeshing Byleth, Sitri, and Jeralt.

It is impossible to ask Sitri for her take on the events that transpired back then… but both Byleth and Jeralt likely have their own mysteries that, if disclosed, could help reveal the whole.

Seteth clears his throat, and opts for the simplest summary of the exchange between the cardinal and archbishop. “Aelfric blamed Rhea for your wife’s… condition,” he explains, as gently as he is able. Jeralt, however, isn’t satisfied with his response. 

“And what do  _ you  _ think?”

This causes Seteth to pause, holding very still.

“Quite frankly,” Seteth sighs, “I do not know what to think anymore, Jeralt.”

“Are you like her? Like Rhea?”

Seteth’s head snaps up, his green eyes blinking at the man before him. Jeralt Reus Eisner, former Captain of the Knights of Seiros, the Blade Breaker… the man who married an upstanding nun who then died under… perplexing circumstances… and escaped a comfortable life at the monastery to raise their child as a travelling mercenary. The man who carries an unspoken bout of history with Lady Rhea, one that weighs heavily on both of them in different ways.

Seteth had never considered the possibility that Jeralt  _ does  _ know everything.

“Hey, don’t go fainting on me now,” the Captain says in a half-laugh and a point of a finger. “I’m pretty sure I’m the only one around here that can tell, because I’ve been around for too many goddess damn lifetimes. And I’m not about to go about telling everyone, either.”

While reassuring to hear that, it does nothing for an absolutely stunned Seteth.

“You don’t have to say it. That’s fine,” Jeralt continues on like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just made Seteth’s greatest fear a stark and painful reality. He continues shoving items into the leather bag. “Anyway, I could leave and Rhea would find me eventually. You know what happens to twice-deserters who know too much. But I could give a shit about what happens to me, anymore.”

Seteth suppresses a snort at the man’s comment, for in fact he does know from first-hand experience what it’s like to have Rhea going to the ends of the Fódlan to find you once you’ve crossed her. And it does little to bolster the scant trust she places in anyone. “You care about Byleth, though,” he pleads. “That’s why you’re still here, I presume. And… why you will stay?”

He tries not to sound too optimistic at the last bit, but it’s no use trying to convince a man whose loved ones suffered at the hands of madness for too long. But it does give Jeralt pause. “She’s… different now. This place changed her,” he says, pensive. “For a while, I thought it was for the better. But now all I see is anger and sadness. That’s not what I want for her.”

“Like I told you the last time we spoke, she has much on her shoulders for such a young age. And certainly none of this has helped relieve that burden,” Seteth responds, referring to the events of that night in the most oblique way possible.

Jeralt shakes his head. “She told me that she wants to stay here, though. Back at the burial… Said that she wants me to leave the Knighthood and the monastery for good. Can you believe that? What would  _ you _ do? If your kid wanted something you know ain’t good for them?”

Seteth lets his expression soften, the tension held in his shoulders fade as his arms drop to his sides. He thinks of Flayn—so long ago, wanting to help defend their kind against those who slither in the dark. Against his better judgement, he abided. And afterwards, he regretted.

He swallows.

“I would go where my child goes so I could protect them and guide them wherever possible. Goddess knows there is enough evil lurking outside our doors that they need it.”

This time, it’s Jeralt’s turn to snort. “Oh, buddy. Evil’s found its way inside a long time ago,” he laughs darkly, clapping a calloused hand on his shoulder. Seteth watches as the man swings his bag over his shoulder and walks past him to the door.

“For what it is worth,  _ I _ think you should stay, Jeralt,” he says quickly, urgently. He can hear Jeralt’s footsteps slow to a stop. “I can do my best to shuffle the mission assignments so that you and Byleth can have at least some time together to talk. Away from the monastery.”

_ Away from Rhea, _ he means.

“We did talk—enough for By to tell me what she wanted. And honestly, after how little we did, I think the kid is more wise than she lets on,” Jeralt says over his shoulder. “Who would’ve thought that an old man like me would listen to my kid’s advice, huh?”

With a sigh, the captain swings his bag over to his front so he can rummage through it. He hums in approval as he retrieves a black leather-bound book, the pages practically falling out and tied together with a piece of twine. “Here,” he says, tossing the book to Seteth and startling him. The book hits him square in the chest, and he fumbles and nearly drops the thing before he really and truly catches it. Jeralt wheezes in laughter at the sight.

“What is this?” Seteth asks dumbly, turning over the book in his hands. There’s a very faint JRE embossed on the cover, but it has worn over many years—bits of the leather cover peeling up at the corners.

“Your homework,” Jeralt replies matter-of-factly. “Read it, and then give it to my kid. Oh, and keep her on the right path. You know the drill. I’m leaving for a while… because that’s what By wanted me to do.”

Seteth flips through the first few pages, and realizes quickly from the faded inked dates and barely legible scrawl that the book is the captain’s journal… and the earliest entries go far back, over two hundred years. He swallows, and nods.

“You have my word, Jeralt Eisner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this far--thank you so much! _*Sylvain voice*_ I appreciate all of you who read my updates and have stuck with me and this fic for this long. Each view, comment, subscription, bookmark, and kudos means so much to me--you don't even know!
> 
> But I hope you enjoyed this chapter; the next one begins to take a dark turn. (Those who have been following along with the chapter titles might know what's coming up the next two chapters...) Please let me know your thoughts, reactions, and feedback below! I'd love to hear from you.


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